The Traveller from the West
by Ravenya03
Summary: The Allan/Djaq/Will reunion! Allan returns to the Holy Land to find his best friends, but when a murder casts suspicion on Will, Allan is the only one the couple can trust. Plenty of Allan angst, Will/Djaq fluff, and A/D/W friendship. Updated weekly.
1. Prologue

_Hi everyone. This is the promised OT3 murder mystery, that I've had "advertised" on my profile page for months now. Sorry for the wait, but I wanted get enough done so that I can promise you that this fic will be updated regularly, every week, on the dot. _

_Because this is a very long fic that will stretch out over several weeks, I think it's only fair to give you some basic information concerning what happens before you invest all your time and energy into reading it. _

_This is an AU fic that takes place two years after the finale of S2. Since S3 holds no interest for me whatsoever, please keep in mind that this story begins after an entirely hypothetical passage of two years, in which the events during this time period are deliberately left vague. Anything that may or may not happen in canon S3 is irrelevant. All bets are off as to who lives, who dies, who hooks up and so on during these two years. "Traveller from the West" is canon only up until the finale of S2 (which means that Marian is still dead, sorry. However, I will be dealing with certain circumstances and consequences surrounding her death)._

_It is basically a murder mystery/friendship fic set in the Holy Land, taking place after Allan returns there in order to be reunited with Will and Djaq. Obviously things don't go entirely smoothly, and the three of them are caught up in circumstances that threaten both peace and their own lives. Although there are several chapters told from Will's point of view, this fic mainly belongs to Allan, and I've attempted to move his story of redemption and his relationship with Will and Djaq to (what I hope!) along its natural continuation. There will be plenty of Allan-angst, Will/Djaq fluff and lots and lots of scrummy OT3 goodness._

_You don't need to be familiar my other fics in order to understand what's going on here, though I do sometimes bring in little details from them which will resonant more with those who have read them. The most important one worth mentioning is the piece of yellow silk that Allan is carrying around. As told in "A Scrap of Yellow Silk," it's a scrap of Djaq's yellow dress that he's been carrying around for the past two years as a reminder of her._

_I unfortunately didn't have time to make this even remotely historically accurate. Any history buffs out there will find this lack of accuracy utterly infuriating…I should know, because I'm one of them. However, it's not like the show has a good precedence to this sort of thing and I'm hoping it won't be too much of a big deal for you: my focus is on the characters and the mystery._

_Finally, this is dedicated to everyone who is heartbroken that Will and Djaq won't be appearing in S3, and who know that Allan rightfully belongs with them, and not some blonde floozy. Below is the prologue: next week we'll be up and running with chapter 1!_

* * *

Prologue

Judging from the expression on the face of the man, he was finding death much to his liking. There was no sign of any injury on his body, neither was their any grimace of pain or terror on his face. If it wasn't for the pallor of his skin and the tiny trickle of blood oozing out from beneath his hair, one might have thought he was in the midst of a pleasant dream – possibly one about a sweetheart. On the whole, he was the most contented-looking dead man Allan had ever seen.

He rose slowly, feeling dizzy and heavy-limbed (though that might have just as much to do with the wine than with his discovery) and simply gazed down at the man who a few hours ago had been the centre of attention; the self-appointed entertainment of the evening. Allan was vaguely aware that others were joining him in the tiled hallway; he could hear cries of alarm, moans and gasps, and a soft _thud_ as no one intervened in a fainting woman's short journey to the floor. But he didn't look up. The figure laid out at his feet had hypnotised him, and he couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away.

"Allan?"

The familiar voice broke him out of the spell, and he looked up at Djaq, all but unrecognisable in her feminine night-gown, looking back at him with a frightening blend of confusion and suspicion on her face. Will left his place at her side in order to kneel down beside the dead body and check it carefully.

"He's dead," he announced to the assembly. "A head wound."

The words may have been redundant, but their finality put an end to any lingering doubt that still flickered in the minds of the hopeful. The tone of the assembled guests swiftly descended from soft mutterings to dark rumblings. Allan opened his mouth and gestured helplessly, knowing that even Djaq might not comprehend what he was trying to say this time.

But as the crowd gathered around, peering down at the dead man in fascination - as though his death had been orchestrated solely for their own amusement - Allan felt a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The feeling that this; the latest mess he'd stumbled onto, would once again be construed as his fault.


	2. The Bird in the Box

_Hi everyone, here's chapter one as promised. I'll be updating this fic every weekend, so you'll be sure of regular incoming chapters for next sixteen weeks! I hope you enjoy it - OT3 forever!_

* * *

_it may not always be so; and i say_

_that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch_

_another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch_

_his heart, as mine in time not far away;_

_if on another's face your sweet hair lay_

_in such a silence as i know, or such_

_great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,_

_stand helplessly before the spirit at bay…_

**Chapter One: The Bird in the Box**

The _Morning-Star_ had nearly reached its destination, and as such the entire crew was darting about on deck, a mirror to the bustle and fuss of the gulls overhead. But one figure at the prow of the ship was still, and his inactivity seemed unnatural amongst the scurrying of the others. Surely the restlessness of the men on board should be catching; surely he should be caught up in the excitement. But the man – not quite short, but not to be considered tall either – had his blue eyes fixed firmly on land. It was this very stillness that caught the eye. A bulky-looking wicker basket was draped over his shoulder. His clothes were old and travel-worn. Judging from the way his front teeth were kneading themselves into his bottom lip, he was in deep concentration. As he stood there, eyes on the shore, one hand dipped into his pocket and drew out a scrap of material. If there had indeed been anyone watching him, they would have been confused at the sight of such a man wrapping what looked like a long strip of yellow silk around his knuckles.

Allan-a-Dale was no stranger to the sensation of fear, but this uncomfortable hammering in his chest was something entirely new. It was not the panic-stricken, heart-pounding fear of impending death as a soldier rushed at him with a drawn sword, nor the sick and raking terror of prolonged torture. No, this squeezing pain was a more elusive beast. It had been trailing him ever since the news that King Richard was returning to England, It had dogged his footsteps as he booked his passage on the first ship bound for Acre. And it was now hitching a ride on his back like an irritating child who didn't want to walk on their own two feet. A child with a surprisingly strong grip, for try as he might, Allan couldn't shake himself free from the feeling.

The worst of it was, he couldn't understand why he was this anxious. There was no real reason for it. All this was what the three of them had planned, on the day he'd exchanged the warmth and luxury of Bassam's household for self-imposed exile back in Sherwood Forest. They had known he would return when things had righted themselves in England…at least, as right as they could ever be. They would be expecting him. So what was it that he was dreading?

That they didn't want him anymore? That they'd forgotten him? That they were still in the nauseatingly love-struck stage he'd left them in? He raised the silk-covered fist to his head in frustration. For so long now he had been an outcast in his own country, since as far as he was concerned, home was in the presence of a dark-haired youth and a diminutive Saracen woman. And he'd abandoned them due to a hazy pretension of honour and redemption, leaving them with a somewhat vague promise that he'd return when the time was right. Or had it been that _they_ had abandoned _him_?

That had been two years ago, and Allan wasn't so naïve that he could fool himself into believing that they'd missed him as much as he had missed them. Surely _nobody _had ever have missed anyone so much as he'd missed them.

The strangest part was the odd circumstances in which he'd longed for their company. Naturally, many days had passed in which there had been the need for a physician's capable hands or a carpenter's analytical mind; (not to mention a few tight places in which an extra axe or a blood-curdling war-cry would have come in handy) days in which they'd simply had to go without. But there were other, stranger occasions in which he'd turned to them and been surprised to find them missing.

Often he'd tell a lewd joke, and turn around eagerly in order to enjoy Will's uncomprehending stare, only to be greeted with an expression of utter distain from Much. Or moments in which he would take Will's sympathetic silence for granted when he indulged in a soul-cleansing rant about the miserable state of things, only to get a cuff round the ear from John. Once he'd even lugged an interesting-looking log halfway across Sherwood Forest before realising there was no Will waiting back at camp to exclaim over such a find. And he'd lost track of how many times he'd called one of the others "Will" by accident. After a while they'd stopped bothering to correct him.

Djaq's absence had been even worse. He'd underestimated just how deep she'd managed to soak into his understanding of the forest; as strange as it seemed that a Saracen woman could be a quintessential part of life amongst English trees. There were a hundred little in-jokes and ribald comments that he'd blurt out before realising that only Djaq could have appreciated them, and perhaps a thousands inconsequential cuts, nicks or bruises that (for a moment, before realisation set in) he didn't mind receiving as it meant the feel of her warm fingers on him as she applied her remedies. Their friendly rivalry, their little competitions, their endless banter – he'd not been able to bring himself to share such games with any of the remaining outlaws, for they were hers and his alone. Throughout it all, a strange, lilting tune would often come to him at night, incessantly drifting through his dreams. From what he could remember of it when he awoke, it sounded Arabic, and though he had no idea when or how he'd heard it, it reminded him of her.

And then there was that especially unfortunate incident that left his mind whirling with confusion and frustration and something rather close to despair. Maggie from the Trip had become surprisingly friendly once he'd returned to outlaw status, no doubt for mysterious, womanly reasons of her own. However, he was never to discover what any of them were: during a rather critical moment of the reconciliation process, he'd accidentally cried out the wrong name – a name that had sounded decidedly masculine to Maggie's ears. He wasn't allowed within ten feet of the Trip after _that_ little misdemeanour, and some of the sideways glances and soft giggles from tavern wenches he'd come across afterward led him to believe Maggie's tongue had been maliciously wagging in regards to his preferences.

He would never live it down. So it should be a relief that he was leaving. With half the female population in Nottingham despising him for his stint as Guy's dogsbody, and the other half (the half that didn't care one way or the other as to who they spent their nights with) assuming that he looked for a different kind of company, he was more than ready to trust his luck and turn his charm on any female cousins that Djaq might have lying around. But it was more than that.

He wanted to forget about the three men he'd left behind, and the sense that somehow he'd abandoned them. Though he didn't like feeling guilty, he forced himself to turn his thoughts in the direction of England and those he'd farewelled nearly four months ago, not knowing what memory made him squirm more: Much's happiness, or Robin's emptiness. He shook his head firmly, shaking his mind free of a grinning Much standing in a shower of blossoms and Robin watching with dark eyes from the shadows of Locksley Manor. Instead he recalled the last sight he'd ever had of John – turning into the forest road, his heavy shoulders set against the cold mist, his giant figure disappearing into the gloom. Even though one had gone by sea, and the other by forest path, he and Allan were both on the same road: setting out on a long journey and hoping a family would be waiting at the end of it.

Allan took a deep breath and forced himself into a more cheerful line of thought. There was a place prepared for him – a home, welcoming smiles, everything he'd wanted. His lonely exile was over. His reward was waiting. Between the two of them, Will and Djaq would relieve him of his burden and the weight of guilt that still lingered. There was nothing left to do but to forget Robin and find his own happiness.

Feeling the strap of the carrier box dig into his shoulder, he adjusted the pigeon's little home to ease the pressure. As he shifted his weight, he winced as a sharp pain bit into the sole of his foot. He didn't think either of the two people connected to the ring currently wedged between his foot and the lining of his boot would be particularly impressed by its hiding place, but it was the safest place he could think of to carry it. Unfortunately, the dratted thing was always cutting into him, and he just hoped he wouldn't end up with a boot full of his own blood by the time he got the small token to its destination.

Yelling and banging surrounded him as ship sailed into port, and for a moment he closed his eyes…the scent of spices and the warmth of the land was surely Djaq's presence reaching out to greet him… It was a fancy that lasted for just a moment before the stink of the docks (unwashed men, dead fish and rancid sea-water) assailed him with all the force of a punch to the face.

_Alright…not Djaq_, he thought to himself. But dry land awaited – and that was something.

"Well, we're 'ere Lardner," he said to the small pigeon through the network of woven sticks that made up his portable home. "In just a few hours you'll be snuggling up with your missus."

There was no shuffle or chirp in reply.

"Fine then, be that way."

Lardner had made the cross-continental trip several times over the course of the past two years. All the messages had been for Robin, and none of them had been personal, but Allan had grown quite fond of the bright-eyed pigeon. The little bird was an impassive listener that he could chat to when the others were giving him the cold shoulder, and he liked the thought that the feathery grey body had recently been in the hands of Will or Djaq. Perhaps a shred of guilt had also been involved – after all, he _had_ been one of the party that had tried to kill him the first time he'd arrived in England…not that Lardner would have known that of course. Still, Allan was superstitious enough to feel that it couldn't hurt his good-behaviour quota by taking care of the little guy. As such, there had been no debate among the other outlaws on this point: that Lardner was Allan's to feed, to carry, to care for.

Without a goodbye to any of the crew (he hadn't bothered making friends with any of them), Allan leapt down onto the bustling dock and hurried to the shore. An idea had just occurred to him. He could set Lardner free right now to give them warning of his coming. He could imagine them now:

"Lardner's here!"

"Word from Robin?"

"No – he's returned by himself. No message at all."

"Really? That's strange. Do you think…?"

"What?"

"Perhaps this means Allan's coming back!"

"Hey, that's an idea. Sending a pigeon ahead is just the sort of thing he'd do."

"Yes! Let's prepare a feast for him!"

"And a hot bath!"

"And some sort of harem…"

Allan opened his eyes. Okay, maybe it wouldn't happen quite like _that_. But it was still brilliant. Lardner as a herald of his coming…he would appear at the door of Bassam's house a few hours later…they would look hopeful and eager…

"We _thought_ it might be you!"

"We hoped it would be."

"We've been waiting for hours."

"We weren't sure if we should stay here or meet you halfway."

"I'd like you to meet my cousin, Yasmina…"

Smiling to himself, he slipped the box from off his shoulder and balanced it against his knee.

"Time to go home Lardner," he said, opening the lid. The tiny pigeon lay in the cool darkness of the basket, its tiny claws clutching the air, its beady eyes blank. Without meaning to, Allan let out a small cry of anguish, and he looked around the busy dock helplessly before the spiteful voice that forever lurked at the back of his mind muttered:

_What are you looking for, a pigeon doctor?_

His gaze slipped back to the bird lying in the tiny box of tragedy. The anxious feeling, temporarily alleviated, returned to him, stronger now than ever. How could this have happened? He'd remembered to feed him, to give him water…perhaps he'd been too cramped in his carrier. Why, oh why hadn't he released him _before_ leaving England?

Because he hadn't wanted to make the trip totally alone. Even the company of a stupid bird was better than none at all. And now he felt like a little child whose first pet had just died, while the mocking voice in his head told him that this was undoubtedly a bad omen.

Pushing aside his sadness, Allan closed the lid and re-hung the box on his shoulder. Never mind. It was just a bird. It didn't mean anything. Taking another deep breath, he turned his attention to the path before him. He remembered the route to Bassam's house well – he'd walked it often enough in his mind – but there was somewhere else he needed to go first.

Allan left the smelly, noisy docks behind him, and the dead pigeon, the emerald ring, and the scrap of yellow silk went with him.

* * *


	3. The Shadow in the Cemetery

**

* * *

**

Chapter Two: The Shadow in the Cemetery

A flat mound of sand was laid out before him, outlined in flat grey stones. Faded red flowers were strewn on the ground before the simple headstone, making him wonder if Djaq had been here recently to pay her respects.

Allan had yanked off his boot to retrieve the ring, and now stood in front of the grave, twirling the gold band through his fingers and thinking of the woman it had once belonged to. He didn't think she'd be too happy in the knowledge that it was him – a man she hadn't really liked, rather than the man she loved – who was returning this ring to her. Even now, he wasn't entirely sure why Robin had entrusted it to him. Perhaps it was just some odd ritual Robin had played out in his mind in an attempt to keep Marian and his love for her to remain…unfinished. The vague idea that bringing the ring here might mean that there were still things to be done between them, tasks to be completed, even if it was with Allan as an intermediary.

Naturally, that line of thinking forced his memories back to Djaq. Things were unfinished between the two of them as well – so much left unsaid, so much he didn't know about how she thought and felt about him. He had a question to ask of her, one he was determined to voice, even if it meant endangering everything he'd come to reclaim. It was a selfish, stupid question, and he dreaded her answer, but he had to know. He would never be free of her if he didn't know.

But before that came, he needed to explain himself to her, to say what he'd swallowed down last time they'd been alone together. He needed to tell her – to tell both of them really, but mainly her – about the circumstances surrounding his defection to darker colours. He'd never held much interest in priests (except for the odd occasion in which he'd needed to impersonate one) but in this case he wanted to give a full confession. A clear and proper account to the two of them regarding what had happened to him after the day he'd walked into the Trip with three tin cups in order to win himself some extra coin.

Speaking of which, he could do with some of that now – his empty stomach was rumbling. Time to hunt down some food. He bent over, planning to bury the ring in a small cavity in the ground, then stopped, realising what it was he was about to do. Bury a priceless ring in a heap of sand – a ring that could set him up nicely for maybe a month or two. The emerald flashed in the sun as he straightened again, and as the hollow in his stomach called out to him, he instinctively wrapped his fist around the ring. No one would ever know if he sold it for some much-needed coin; certainly not Marian, and not Robin either, who – come to think of it – had probably just stolen the thing from a nobleman anyway. And if Allan sold it on to some Saracen character…at a fair price to some poor merchant who had children to feed…who would be grateful at the generosity of an Englishman – heck, he'd be playing a part in restoring peace between countries! Hadn't that been Robin's ultimate goal, right from the start?

He suddenly felt chilled despite the heat of the desert, and he had the sudden sensation that he was being watched. Shrugging away the feeling, he sighed deeply and knelt down to dig a small but deep hole, laying the ring down in the sand and covering it up again.

"Sorry," he muttered grudgingly to the small headstone.

He raised himself up, casting one last glance at the overturned pile of sand. If goodness was its own reward, then why did he feel as though he'd done something remarkably stupid? His stomach muttered in agreement. The ring would just lie there now, no good to anyone.

With dragging feet, he shuffled away, but movement out the corner of his eye made his head shoot up. Upon the high ridge of sand that divided the burial site from the walls of the city, (difficult to see against the glint of the sun) he was sure he'd seen a man move swiftly out of sight. He froze, his heart thudding as faint recognition stirred in him. No…it couldn't be…

But the figure – whoever it was – had gone, and once more feeling the chill of watchfulness, Allan hurried away.

* * *

It was so strange to be back here.

It was several hours later, and he was standing at the door of the modest, but well-kept estate of the Sultan's pigeon-handler. He remembered the place well – the shuttered windows, the cool fountain, the line of dovecotes that were awash with cooing birds. He shifted Lardner's basket to his other shoulder. He hadn't been able to bring himself to simply cast the feathered body away. The least he could do for his tiny comrade would be to complete the journey he couldn't make for himself.

He hesitated at the front door, sweat prickling across his body. He took a deep breath. And another. He wiped his sleeve across his forehead and raked his fingers through his hair. Then he reached forward and knocked firmly, hoping the sound would give the illusion of confidence when in fact there was none.

Fidgeting, he looked over his shoulder at the pigeons, all of whom seemed to be watching him. There was movement inside the house and the door opened. A veiled face looked out, a pair of large dark eyes looking straight into his. It was a girl of about twelve, gazing at him suspiciously.

"Er…hello," he said. "I'm looking for…"

She cut him off, saying something in rapid Arabic, and then rushed back into the house, her bare feet slapping on the tiles. The front door swung open in her wake and he tentatively moved into the house. Had she gone to fetch Djaq? He pulled at his clothes nervously, feeling as though his heart was pummelling the insides of his chest.

But when the girl reappeared at the end of the darkened corridor, she was pulling by the hand a short, somewhat pudgy fellow. Bassam.

For a moment Bassam simply looked at him, then recognition flooded his features.

"You have returned!" he said, reaching forward to shake Allan's hand. "They always suspected you would."

Allan's heart jerked in his chest, and his mouth instantly dried.

"They," he said, and swallowed hard. "Are they…here?"

Bassam looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before shaking his head.

"No. They have gone to the city. They have not been here in some time."

Allan's shoulders slumped, disappointment and a strange sense of relief gushing through him.

"How can I find them?"

Bassam smiled.

"I shall tell you. But for now, why not come in and have something to eat?"

* * *

Allan didn't need to be asked twice, and in the space of a few minutes he was seated at a small table that was laden with food. The last time he'd sat at this table, Marian had been alive, he'd been surrounded by his old friends, and Will and Djaq had been emerging from the aviary in the adjoining room, casting puppy-dog eyes at each other. He'd been surprised last time to find he'd rather enjoyed Eastern food; would have done so even if he _hadn't_ been so hungry, and time had not changed his opinion of it. Unlike solid English food, this was deliciously scented, and tickled his taste-buds, and _looked_ so much more interesting. Finally he wiped his mouth and looked up rather bashfully at Bassam, who had been watching from the other side of the table as Allan devoured the feast before him.

The flutter of pigeons in the next room had reminded him of something. He unhooked the basket from around his shoulder and handed it to Bassam over the empty dishes on the table, looking apologetic.

"He died on the trip over. I'm sorry – but, I wanted to bring him all the way home."

He squirmed uncomfortably, feeling childish, but Bassam nodded sadly as he opened and surveyed the contents of the box.

"Lar-din-Neer," he sighed sadly. "I might have known. His poor mate died four days ago. It is usually the way of it – when one goes, the other is not far behind."

At this news, Allan felt suddenly thankful that Lardner hadn't survived the trip – surely it would have been worse to survive the arduous journey only to find that nothing was waiting for him at the end of it. Bassam set the cage aside and turned back to Allan.

"Now tell me – how has Robin fared since I saw him last? And what of the other men in your company?"

Allan took a deep breath, forced down his impatience, and cast his mind back to those left in England.

* * *

Much of course, was set up for life. Bonchurch had been claimed, Eve had been found, food had been eaten. Allan recalled the day of the wedding; the day before the four remaining outlaws had parted ways for what seemed like time indeterminate. Oblivious to such things, Much had been flushed and giddy in a shower of flower petals, his bride beaming up at him from the circle of his arm, tables so laden with the wedding banquet that they'd sagged in the middle. But for the first time in living memory, Allan had watched Much ignore the feast before him, too besotted with the sight of the woman under his arm to even notice.

Robin had been watching from the shadows of the manor house, pleased for his oldest friend, but suffering at the sight of Eve's white dress and flowered wreath, no doubt envisioning a different face and a darker shade of hair on the form of the radiant bride. Much had wanted to be married at Bonchurch, but Robin had insisted on Locksley. Allan wasn't quite sure why – perhaps he'd just wanted a wedding there, even if it wasn't his own. Allan had watched him throughout the day: the man he had long since ceased to envy, at a complete loss as to what to say or do. Allan doubted that he could provide any comfort, and knew that it was his place to do so anyway. It was with a small sigh of relief that he'd seen John approach Robin, saying words to him that Allan couldn't guess at.

Robin had invited the two of them back to Locksley for a while, perhaps unwilling to loose the old gang so quickly after seeing Much established, and Allan and John had agreed for their old leader's sake. But Locksley felt like a haunted place now, even once its master had returned to claim it. There was an empty space in Locksley Manor; a space that had never truly been filled, and now never would, a distinction that made all the difference in the atmosphere of the rooms and hallways. The house was still waiting for something – yet it was a vain hope now, and the house felt restless and incomplete. They had not stayed for long; though Allan wasn't precisely sure. Time had lost most of its meaning at Locksley. They'd left soon after, bidding Robin goodbye at his doorway. It shouldn't have been like this – a strange, uncertain goodbye. There should have been rejoicing and celebration, ale and feasting, shouting and reminiscing, and finally tears and embraces and promises to return soon. Instead there was awkwardness and the sense that they were somehow abandoning him.

Robin hadn't been the same since the Holy Land – simply a shell of his former self. He'd given orders, distributed food, given rousing speeches, and increased his recklessness tenfold. Allan had seen it in his eyes: Robin Hood just didn't care anymore; going through his duties due to the promise he'd given to a dying woman, without any thought or regard for the future, knowing that the only reward awaiting him was an empty house and the responsibilities of a lord to fulfil without a helpmate.

"Give this to her," he'd said, pressing something into Allan's hand. He looked down to see a lady's ring set with a large green gemstone, and knew Robin hadn't been referring to Djaq. He nodded dumbly, and then grappled for words – any words.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed, inadequately apologising for the last five years and all that had occurred within them, all that had been his fault, and all that hadn't, trying to somehow convey the regret he felt on Robin's behalf. Robin had simply nodded and disappeared inside. Allan had stood, staring at the doorway for a few moments, feeling that there should be something more. Then he had turned around to find John waiting for him, looking old and weary enough for Allan to believe that he was at the end of his journey rather than at its beginning. The sheriff was dead, Prince John was in exile, King Richard was returning to reclaim his throne, yet never had a victory felt more like a bitter defeat.

He and John had walked the forest road in silence, staring in wonderment at the trees that had been their home for so long. Nothing had changed except their status in "outlaw", but that made all the difference. The forest was no longer their sanctuary and silent ally. It was just a forest now. The camp had been abandoned. The secret routes and hiding places would be forgotten. The booby traps would be reclaimed by the gradual growth of the fauna. They had walked the path, knowing there would never be another ambush, another well-rehearsed threat to any rich travellers, no more talks by night, no more morning jokes…no more sounds of Will's hammering or Djaq's laughter – but then, he thought, forgetting for the umpteenth time – those sounds had been absent for a while now. Finally they reached the fork in the road and realised that the time had come to take leave of each other. Allan found it odd that out of all the outlaws, it was the two of them who would be the last to part ways.

For a second they looked at one another, again struck by the sense that this should be a momentous occasion, and instead finding it impossibly humdrum. They were just two men, after all, two men saying farewell, as thousands of other comrades had undoubtedly done before them. Finally John clapped him on the shoulder.

"Well – good luck."

That was all, and yet Allan knew that for as long as he lived, he'd never forget the sight of John striding down that mist-covered, leaf-strewn path, before he'd finally disappeared into the haze of morning light.

* * *

Allan took a breath, and looked up at Bassam wearily, feeling that he'd been doing hard labour in the telling of the outlaws' tales.

"Now I imagine," said Bassam. "You want to know about your other friends."

Allan tried not to look too eager, and failed miserably.

"Will and Safiyah stayed with me for two weeks before moving to the capital. Will received a summons from King Richard, and Safiyah accompanied him. They have been in his majesty's service ever since, trying to secure peace."

Allan nodded, though it wasn't what he'd expected. To be honest, he'd always pictured them within this cool, mysterious house, not doing much of anything. He felt vaguely surprised that they'd been hard at work, though he wasn't sure why.

"Now, I will tell you where they are and how to find them."

Bassam looked at him intently, and Allan felt uneasy – the old man's delays reminded him of stalling tactics - as though he was about to tell him news that he knew he wouldn't like to hear.

"They will be at the Sultan's summer palace where the last of the peace treaties are to be signed in three day's time. It is a cause for great celebration, and they are the guests of honour."

Allan's jaw dropped. Did he just say _palace_? Guests of _honour_? At a _palace_? For a moment he simply gaped, then swallowed his astonishment. In his absence, it seemed, Will and Djaq had become _important_.

"How…how can I get there?"

Bassam smiled kindly.

"I shall provide you with a guide to the gates of the city. From there it should be easy enough to find your way to the Sultan's palace. But tonight – you shall stay here."

Allan nodded, feeling exhausted. Staying sounded like a good idea. Not just to rest himself, but to delay the inevitable. For now he had a lot more to think about

.

* * *

_Yikes, I never realised before how depressing this chapter was! However, please hang in there: there is some sunshine and light on its way. The next chapter catches up with Will and Djaq and what they've been up to all this time._


	4. The Carpenter and the King

**Chapter Three: The Carpenter and the King**

Allan's guide had been utterly untalkative, even in his own tongue, so Allan had filled the silence with blather. He found himself pouring out his life-story to the disinterested Saracen, treating him as he'd treated little Lardner: as a suitably mute (and therefore helpless) listener to his woes and troubles. By the time they'd reached the gates of the city, three days out from Bassam's house, Allan's throat was hoarse. His guide practically ran from him once the task in depositing him at the required destination was complete.

Allan watched him go, shrugged, and then turned to the winding streets before him. Bassam had given him travelling clothes: a white headdress to shield him from the sun, and loose-fitting white robes that had been designed to keep him cool – or at least as cool as one could get in this furnace of a place. Bassam had told him that it was probably safer for him to travel in Saracen garb, and provided he didn't attract unnecessary attention to himself, he could hopefully avoid any questions.

Bassam had been most helpful, not just in providing a guide – however reluctant said guide might have been – but in filling Allan's pack with the necessary supplies, teaching him some rudimentary Arabic, and slipping details about Djaq's life into conversation. Allan had been too embarrassed to ask for such information himself, remembering full well the uncanny perception with which the old man had gauged Allan's feelings toward his niece the last time they'd met. But Allan hadn't been able to bring himself to ask whether or not she and Will were married, and Bassam hadn't volunteered the information. Allan wasn't sure how he felt about that possibility, not entirely certain whether he needed to mentally prepare himself for it or not. So he held back, wanting for some reason to cling to the idea that she wasn't.

Now, wandering about and feeling a tad deserted, Allan wondered if he should have asked after all. Fortunately his stomach was distracting him from such thoughts, and he began to cast his eyes about for some place to get lunch.

* * *

Will Scarlett sat astride his dark Arabian horse, looking down at the lines of white-clad soldiers, the red crosses dividing their chests, steadily abandoning the last desert encampment. On one side of him was King Richard the Lionheart, grave and solemn, on the other was Lord Percy Lean, thoughtful and silent. Behind them were two small units of well-trained bodyguards that served both king and nobleman. Despite the significance of the occasion, the importance of the two men who flanked him, and the hard work that Will himself had put into ensuring the departure of the Crusaders from the Holy Land, his mind couldn't be further from the sight before him. In his mind's eye he was already in the embrace of copper-hued arms, running his fingers through silky hair, and basking in the light of two large dark eyes. He gave a little sigh without realising it, and the King of England turned to him with an amused smile.

"My crown if I can't guess _your _thoughts," he said, his deep, gravely voice disrupting Will's dream. He turned as red as his name. The King smiled indulgently, then turned his gaze back to the disbanded troops.

"I envy you, boy," he said, and Will squirmed uncomfortably. It was not the first time the King had expressed such a sentiment, and though Will secretly agreed that every man on earth should envy him for the woman he loved, it was another matter entirely when such thoughts were voiced out loud. Especially when they were voiced by the King.

He shot a discreet glance at his lord and master, wondering at the fact he could stomach his company at all. For a long time it had seemed like Will would never be able to forgive the man for tying his beloved to posts in the desert and leaving her to die a slow and agonising death (not to mention himself and the rest of his friends). Yet necessity and duty had forced him into an alliance with this man, and every now and then he glimpsed a moment of gravity or humility that made him understand Robin's devotion to the flawed king.

At his other side, Sir Lean coughed, as far removed from the connotations of his name as Will's blush linked him directly to his own. Will watched out the corner of his eye as the swarthy, red-faced man wiped his sweaty brow with his handkerchief. The King's portly representative had never managed to acclimatize himself to the heat of this place, despite all his years here. Will however, felt that he had done rather well; being able to sit upright in his chain mail and white tunic with only minor discomfort, and hardly drenched in sweat like Sir Lean.

"Well, Sir William," he said, after his coughing fit had passed, making Will wince at both the title and the name he so disliked. "It's all but over now. Just a few more signatures, a few more diplomatic dinners, a few more smiles and handshakes and you'll be a free man. What will you do? Go back to carpentry?"

As usual, Will couldn't tell whether his companion's voice carried traces of mockery or not. But having never been ashamed of his life or his former occupation, he answered smoothly:

"It's too soon to be thinking about that. I just want to get through this week first."

Sir Percy snorted amiably (snorting seemed to be a legitimate word in the man's vocabulary, usually translating into some form of agreement or resignation) and mopped his neck. In silence, the three men watched the white and red figures of the Crusaders abandoning their last campsite; the tents dismantled, the horses saddled, the bags packed, and the thread of soldiers heading toward the ships at Acre, waiting for them somewhere over the hazy horizon. As the last of them began to disappear, King Richard turned to Sir Percy, twisting the heavy silver insignia ring off his finger and handing it over to the man who would act as his voice for the next week as the final treaties were signed and peace ceremonies were carried out.

"This is farewell," he said. "For now at least. I shall see you soon enough, Sir Percy…and you Sir William as well, should you choose to return home to England."

He shook both their hands, allowing a brief but warm smile to cross his mouth, and then took one last look at the city walls behind them. King Richard nodded in satisfaction, and turned away.

As the King departed, nudging his stallion into a canter and leading his team of bodyguards down to the rear of the army, Sir Lean fell silent and Will let his thoughts drift back to the daydream that was so infinitely preferable to politics. It would all be over soon: this muddle of affairs of state and opposing policies that had occupied his energy for so long now. Soon he'd be rid of it all, and able to concentrate on the much more appealing aspects of his life.

He remembered his first days in this dry and harsh land, over two years ago now, and how despondent and homesick he'd felt. Not to mention how bewildered he was concerning his newfound relationship with Djaq, who seemed to be just as uncomfortable as he was.

In hindsight, it was obvious to both of them that she'd spoken out only because death was approaching as inexorably as the morning light. She had blurted out only half-realised emotions in that dark barn without giving herself pause, not having the luxury of time or peace to analysis what it was she was attempting to convey. Though the sentiments behind the statements were as true as steel, both knew that she might not have been ready to share those fermenting feelings if it hadn't been for the army of mercenaries waiting to separate them forever. Now having spoken prematurely, the rest of her – her mind, her soul, her common sense – was racing to catch up with her heart.

The others didn't know it, but it had been Will's idea for the two of them to stay in the Holy Land. He would have to give up Luke for what might be an indefinite period of time, but he had gotten used to not seeing his brother every morning, sleeping on the cot beside him. He would have to give up the other outlaws, but he would still have the one outlaw that mattered most, the one that had been moving like a spirit around Bassam's house, trailing her fingers across walls and pillars in longing and wistfulness. He hadn't wanted to take Djaq back to England so soon after she'd returned to her native home; not after such an arduous journey to get here in the first place. And judging by the dark look in Robin's eyes, things were about to get very ugly in Nottingham. The first time Marian had departed from the world, (albeit temporarily) Will had returned just in the nick of time to help turn the tide on the onslaught of guards that Robin had charged at, with John, Much and Djaq caught up in the wake of his madness. No…comparatively speaking, Djaq would be much safer here.

And then – was it so wrong that he wanted them to be alone together, for the first time in their lives? To not have to deal with Much's constant calls for her attention, or John's fatherly watchfulness upon the two of them, or Robin's immutable orders that could separate them at a word? He didn't think so…even though most of all he had wanted to remove her from the way Allan looked at her – that half-frantic, half-despairing look in his blue eyes that he'd fixed on her all the way from Portsmouth, the meaning of which couldn't be more obvious if he'd simply come out and said it.

With all that in mind, there were other intriguing advantages in staying, namely that Saracen craftsmanship was like nothing that Will had ever seen before. He recalled the abandoned Eastern coach, the one he'd found a year ago in the woods of Sherwood, and the way the design had impressed him so. Here he'd swiftly discovered that it was the least of the wonders that this place had to offer.

On hearing his request, Djaq had dressed him in the garb of a Saracen apprentice and rubbed a sweet smelling dye onto his face, hands and upper body to darken his skin, before taking him to some of the craftsmen in the neighbourhood. Introducing him as a dumb mute, she insisted that a strange sort of genius dwelt in her "cousin's" long fingers, and soon Will was soaking up the techniques of artistry that he saw demonstrated before him. His mind enraptured by the skill involved and his fingers twitching in anticipation, Will was grateful for Bassam's geniality in providing him with tools and materials to work with. After a few days, Will was confident enough to visit the workshops without Djaq as an escort – though after giving him the dye she'd used regularly on his skin, she'd taken to reminding him so ferociously to cover the back of his neck, that he knew he'd never dare forget.

The work had been an escape, from worries and anxieties and the terrifying prospect that was the future. In the languid peacefulness of Bassam's abode, she was called Safiyah by the servants, and often wore a dress and veil about the house, speaking in a language he didn't understand. A few times when he'd seen her coming, a few moments had passed before he realised that shrouded figure was Djaq.

It had felt like they were drifting away from each other, unintentionally and unwillingly on both sides, ironically becoming more shy and uncertain with each other _after _they'd declared their love. He could see that she was just as miserable as he was, though with added confusion over how she should act, what he expected from her, and what precisely the two of them should do next. He wasn't a talker, and never had been – he was a man who solved problems through actions. Since the words that could have put her at ease consistently failed to form themselves, he resorted to carving her trinkets and jewellery, carving pictures and letters into trees, whittling her little ornaments out of cedar-wood. Everyone from Robin to Marian, John and Much, and even Allan – perhaps carved to appear a little shorter than strictly necessary – eventually made an appearance in miniature, to be lined up across her windowsill. Anything and everything he could think of to infuse his work with what he was so desperately trying to tell her.

But she remained elusive, and he watched her helplessly as she flitted between identities: sometimes acting coy and flirtatious as they handled the pigeons in the aviary, sometimes brisk and efficient when teaching him rudimentary Arabic, sometimes silent and listless when she trailed after him to the workshop, as though _she _were the one who didn't belong in this place. She was lost somewhere between the two halves of herself, grappling with the identity she'd forged for herself in the depths of Sherwood Forest, and the ghost of the woman she'd left behind in her homeland.

So when King Richard's summons came, requesting their aid in handling the peace negotiations, the two of them had seized the chance like a traveller stumbling toward an oasis. Work as a spy would be impossible for a woman, and so once again Djaq's hair had been cropped short and her brother's clothes donned, and once again the two found themselves on equal, understandable footing.

For nearly two years they had waded the murky waters of diplomacy, persuasion, deception, bribery and – on occasion – blackmail. They had carried messages between Saracen and English parties, integrated themselves amongst their own people in order to discuss the humanity of the enemy, and kept close eye on those who spoke of war-mongering, often dealing with them in dark alleys or conveniently timed drunken brawls. But more often they had utilised their talents as healer and craftsman, in order to knit together two cultures who loathed each other, in the hope that one day they might be ready to talk peace.

They had lived in squalor and filth, often going for weeks at a time without seeing one another, sometimes finding themselves armed, marching out under banners bearing either crosses or crescents, and combating a mutineers or zealots that threatened the ground-work they'd been so carefully establishing. It had been hard work, dangerous and unrewarding, (no cool forests to retreat into, no grateful peasants showering blessings down upon their heads) but as they moved ever closer to the goal of presenting Saladin with Richard's olive branch, they knew that their time here had not only been worth it, but that it had probably saved them. To have a mission to complete, a myriad of plans to carry out, and only one another to rely on; such circumstances had brought them closer than all their time in Sherwood ever could.

And if something seemed to be missing – a sceptical voice with a rough edge of sarcasm that could have alleviated the occasional moment of hopelessness – then its absence was swiftly forgotten with kisses that gradually lost their clumsiness as time went on. They inched closer to each other in the nights, finally wondering if they should even bother with abstinence considering any wedding ceremony between them would be impossible anyway. They had each other's devotion. Surely that was all that mattered.

After two years of working behind the scenes, moving between King Richard and Saladin with tokens of peace and drafts of treaties, the night finally came. The king and the general would meet under the cover of darkness, (to avoid any trouble they said, though the two of them knew very well it was to hide the number of men they intended to bring along with them) and Will and Djaq sat in the upstairs apartment of a dingy little house. Their hands were clasped tightly and their hearts were beating wildly, knowing that somewhere out there two groups of people were threading through the small streets, gradually drawing closer together for a meeting that would make history. Both were acutely aware that their hope for peace, their work in both forest and desert, their sacrifices of freedom and family, innocence and friendships, were all bound up in the successful resolution of this meeting.

They'd woken in the morning light, disentangled themselves from each other's arms, and then went at separate times and directions to reach the delegation. It had taken a lot of will-power to let go of her, but Djaq had gone first, and Will left the house a few minutes later in a strange state of light-headed euphoria and heavy-hearted misgivings. As he closed in on the meeting place, his heart tried to climb out of his chest, and as he came across the lines of Crusaders, their swords and bows at the ready, his heart took a swan dive into the pit of his stomach. But as he passed through the ranks, he became aware of a new sensation in the air: one of hope, and barely suppressed excitement. Not daring to ask, Will approached the raised dais in the middle of the city where he saw the legendary Saladin and King Richard himself surrounded by dignitaries, their heads bent down low over a laid-out parchment. Djaq was among Saladin's people, and on her face was an expression he'd only ever seen once before. It was pure joy, and this time it was not tempered by the threat of encroaching death.

He could only stand and stare, swaying slightly on his feet, until a few minutes later when Richard noticed his presence and called him up. It was only then that Will registered that Djaq was dressed in womanly garb, and that the king and the war-lord were casting semi-amused glances from Will to Djaq and back again. She told him later that whether things went good or ill, she would be as she truly was and hang the consequences. He refrained from telling her that if things _had_ gone ill, it would indeed have been hanging – or worse – as a consequence. When the cheering that followed the first public declaration of peace had died down, the couple had made discreet signs to each other to depart and meet up in their rooms. Firm hands had interceded. To their everlasting astonishment, the two of them had been presented to the crowds as the engineers of this historic meeting, and their stories told by expert storytellers: the carpenter and the slave: the harbingers of peace. After a gob-smacked Will had been knighted by the hand of King Richard himself, it was declared that his marriage to the Saracen noblewoman Safiyah, would be celebrated pending the final signing of the necessary treaties, as a symbol of the peace that had just been pronounced.

In the private, frantic conversations that followed shortly afterward, they came to the conclusion that it was Robin Hood they had to thank for this. Somehow his larger-than-life persona had rubbed off on the two of them, and since most knew they had been among Hood's followers, they had been granted some of the mystique and mystery accorded to the famous outlaw from Sherwood. Because of Robin and their elevation to symbols of the cultures they belonged to, any union between them had ceased to be disgusting and loathsome. Within the space of a few hours, their love had suddenly become something much larger than the two of them. The King and the Sultan had given them their public blessings, and as soon as Richard set back for England, as soon as the last peace treaties were signed, Will could marry Djaq – legally and openly, when all they'd ever hoped for was marriage in spirit…and in secret.

They had lapsed into silence, their minds still boggling, even as their bodies crumpled with exhaustion. Finally, they crept toward the small cot against the wall and collapsed onto the blankets, Will using the last bit of his strength to wrap his arm around Djaq's shoulders, Djaq turning her face into his neck and throwing her own arm over his chest. Just before he fell asleep he managed to murmur…

"Djaq? Do you want to marry me?"

…and heard in reply…

"Yes."

* * *

_Yes, yes, yes._

Surely it was the singularly most wonderful word in any language, anywhere, ever. Will took a deep, trembling breath, and exhaled slowly, feeling as though the events he'd just recounted in his mind could not possibly belong to the life of a carpenter's son from a local English hamlet.

He turned to Sir Lean with a smile still upon his face.

"We should return," he said respectfully, but with an underlying trace of command. With another snuffle, Sir Lean nodded, and together the men – followed closely by the English bodyguards that Lean never left his rooms without – headed back toward the gates of the city. Will had doubted Sir Lean's worth as a representative of the King, given his barely concealed distrust toward the Saracens that surrounded him, but Will couldn't deny the man's intelligence when it came to political wrangling or his grasp of the Arabic language. All he had to do now was sign a few treaties on Richard's behalf, press the royal insignia ring into various splots of wax, and make a few speeches that hopefully wouldn't be too condescending.

And then…then it would be just Will and Djaq. He hadn't seen her for nearly a month now – soon after the marriage had been so abruptly announced, they'd had to part ways once more. Djaq was needed in the city to translate several of the political documents into various languages, whilst Richard had requested Will's presence in rounding up the various garrisons around the city.

Now only one remained – the legion of fifty or so men under Sir Percy's command to serve his needs, protect his household, and provide a reasonable crowd of English witnesses to the final stages of the peace negotiations. Will looked up at the walls of the city, just catching a glimpse of the peach coloured walls of the Sultan's summer palace situated behind the mosque, and knew – Djaq was in there somewhere, waiting for him.

They'd arrived at the last English settlement. It was a household near the palace, out from which spilled a puddle of white tents, under which was sprawled a bored, but generally cheerful group of men, most of whom greeted Sir Percy before turning their attention to Will.

"Care for another tournament?" the one called Dirk asked, grinning at him. He pulled out his knife and fingered its point, and Will smiled as he dismounted, handing on the reins of his mare to a squire. As soon as Percy's men had noticed his skill with an axe, they regularly challenged him to throwing competitions – his hand-axe to their daggers – and the more he bested them, the more fervently they asked for rematches.

He was about to decline – he wanted to get to the palace, and there wasn't a moment to loose. But before he could voice his apologies, he was disturbed by the sounds of a scuffle from the awnings. The awnings that contained several food and weapon supplies. Awnings that Will had always thought were situated rather foolishly close to the city street.

"Stop thief!" a voice rang out.

Immediately the men around him dropped what they were doing and rushed toward the commotion. Giving a small groan of frustration, Will followed after, knowing that the boredom of soldiers and the mercy that should be granted to hungry beggars seldom, if ever, mixed.

* * *

_Hmm, who could it possibly be? ;)_

_Okay, I understand that not a lot happened in this chapter; it was more of the catch-up in regards to what Will and Djaq have been doing for the past two years. However, I absolutely promise you that the story (and the reunion, or at least two-thirds of it) will be happening next chapter. I just needed to set the scene in terms of where our OT3 stand, and much of what you've read here will be important later on down the track!_

_Reviews/comments always appreciated._


	5. The Thief in the Holy Land

**Chapter Four: The Thief in the Holy Land**

It had seemed like a good idea. The supply tent was open to the street, the folds flapping as though beckoning him forward. Inside he could glimpse bags of grain, loaves of bread, bushels of fruit – there was plenty of it and no one would miss just a few items. Besides, this was clearly Crusader territory, he could tell by the flag flapping above the house, and Englishmen surely wouldn't begrudge a fellow countryman his meal.

Well, apparently they _could,_ judging from the howls of outrage and the pummelling that had followed the arrival of three soldiers into the tent. It had taken them only a moment to register the sight of a ragged figure with an apple raised halfway to his mouth before they pounced.

They got in a few well-aimed punches in the ensuing struggle, before he managed to wriggle away, vaguely wondering why they thought the command "stop thief!" would have any effect on him whatsoever. Unfortunately, his rush out into the street only resulted in a collision with another gang of burly looking men who were more than happy to obey those behind him, and haul him back in.

"Oy, come on!" he protested as sleeves rolled up and knuckles cracked. "Look – I'm English! I've just sailed on over on the latest ship to help you lot out!"

"Help with what?" one laughed derisively while simultaneously grinding his fist into his palm. His arms pinned behind his back, Allan fumbled for an answer.

"Er – packing?"

He grudgingly conceded that he almost deserved the punch that followed this statement.

Amidst the kicks that followed, he was wondered whether it was worth dropping Robin Hood's name, when he heard an authoritative voice break through the tumult.

"That's enough! The fighting's over, and as far as I know, a war against poor beggars is one that never began."

The men swiftly released their hold on him and Allan slumped to the ground – eyes fixed on a pair of dust-covered boots. Too exhausted to even look up, he patted them wearily.

"Thanks mate. Just after a bite to eat."

The boots before him shifted, then the voice spoke, presumably to his fellows.

"I see no reason why we shouldn't feed him. There's plenty to spare."

The air filled with murmurings, and Allan heard the men shuffling away, before two hands reached down to pull him upright.

"They're just restless I'm afraid. They arrived too late for any real action and are now acting as personal guard to Sir Percy Lean. They're been spoiling for a fight for ages, and now – Allan?"

Allan had righted himself completely, eyes downcast so he could tenderly rub a bump spot on his head, and only vaguely noting that his rescuer was young, and considerably taller than he was. But it was that last word, spoken in a higher, surprised pitch, that made his neck snap up to find its source.

Beyond the dizzy swirl of stars, the man's features suddenly solidified: and they belonged to Will.

For a minute he could only gape speechlessly. Will, dressed in the white tunic and chain mail of a crusader, the red cross emblazoned across his chest. Will, with sun-browned skin and slightly longer hair. Will, with a look of astonishment across his face that no doubt matched his own.

"Will!" he spluttered in equal parts astonishment and delight, followed closely by a crushing wave of humiliation as he realised the circumstances in which Will had found him. Hardly the hero's welcome he'd envisaged when Will had had to pick him off the ground like a common thief.

Flushing, Allan tried to salvage the situation, grasping at the fading shreds of his dignity, his mind still whirling over the fact that it was indeed Will standing before him.

"I just saw the open tent – an' the food was inside – there was so much of it, and I 'ave money, look!"

He thrust Bassam's pouch under Will's nose.

"I was just lookin' for someone to pay when they grabbed me – didn't give me a chance to explain…"

Will nodded wordlessly, his expression caught somewhere between dazed bemusement and wonderment.

"What…what are you doing here?" he finally managed.

"Well, I…the war's over…so I…came back…"

Even as he said it Allan's imaginings tumbled down around his ears so utterly that he could almost hear them crash into the sand at his feet.

What the hell was he doing here? What on earth had he expected? Allan felt a hideous lump of disappointment, humiliation and bitterness begin to crawl up his windpipe, a lump that would almost certainly disgorge itself in the saying of something utterly stupid. He clamped his mouth shut and peered into Will's face, trying to read the stoic features.

"It's good to see you," Will said seriously. "How long have you been travelling?"

"Bout four months by sea, three weeks on land. The winds were good. Went to Bassam's house first and couldn't find ya there. He sent me 'ere – told me you were at the palace…?"

He let the statement drift into a question. Will ducked his head again, clearly embarrassed.

"Just for a few nights while the peace treaties are getting signed. Then it's back to the inn."

Allan nodded eagerly, wanting to know as much as possible. "Uh-huh. How come you're at the palace though? You musta done somethin' spectacular to warrant summing like that."

Will shuffled again.

"I served under King Richard and played my part in securing for him a meeting with Saladin. The Sultan was…grateful."

Allan quietly absorbed all this, his eyes running over the Crusader's uniform, the new scars on his hands and face, the look on his face: older, more weary, less innocent. Will looked back. Allan looked exactly the same. Except perhaps…sandier.

"So where are you…do you have a place to stay?"

"Not yet – I just arrived."

Will nodded uncertainly, obviously not sure how to proceed, looking up at the crusader house and then out onto the street. One of the men returned and grudgingly thrust a bowl of stew at Allan, spilling some of it on his shirt as he did so. Allan took it without even glancing at him, too busy trying to read the expression on Will's face. This would be so much easier if Djaq were here…

_Djaq_…

Now that he was this close, now that it was possible that he'd be _seeing_ her shortly, he began to feel light-headed. Quickly, he tipped the salty contents of the stew down his throat in between answering Will's hesitant questions about his journey, his opinion on the Holy Land, his general health, and how he was liking the weather.

Discomfort began to crawl between them as the polite, restrained conversation carried on and no mention of Djaq was made. Will deliberately evaded questions that might have brought her into the exchange, and as such, Allan suddenly found himself unable to voice her name, certain that he would choke or turn bright red or something equally appalling if he was to form the single syllable that was so loaded with meaning and awkwardness and intensity for both of them.

The two of them were acutely aware of their omission, as though her spirit had arrived in one of her rare but terrifying flashes of temper, demanding to know why they were ignoring her so pointedly, but now both were too embarrassed to mention her. As discreetly as he could, Allan glanced down at Will's hand for any sign of a ring.

_Gloves. Damn._

"Ah, that's better," Allan said, finishing the stew and patting his gurgling stomach. "A man can get hungry out 'ere."

Grinding silence fell between them, and Will cleared his throat loudly, once again returning to their original topic of discussion: "Look, they don't really need me here. I could take you to the inn we've been staying in. We've already paid for a week."

Although Allan's head was whirling at the word "we", the first indicator that Djaq still existed, he managed to pull out his money-pouch.

"I'll pay you back. I'll pay you for however many nights I'm 'ere."

"You don't have to-"

"No, I _want_ to."

Will shrugged, then glanced at the soldiers milling about, trying to look busy and not eavesdrop on the conversation between the well-respected Sir William Scarlett and what looked like a very lost English beggar. "I can take you now if you like."

Allan nodded agreeably – though he would have nodded agreeably if Will had suggested they go camel riding in the desert without any compass, water or clothing – and followed him obediently to the street.

As they walked, Allan watched his companion out of the corner of his eye, trying to organise his racing thoughts. He'd thought so often about what he'd hoped their reunion would be like, and yet spared little thought on what it would _probably_ be like. Some awkwardness was only to be expected – after all, it had been over two years. There was a lot of catching up to do. But truth be told, he'd honestly expected to find them at Bassam's house which stood in his mind like an oasis in the desert. Why the two of them had escaped that bastian of peace and safety in order to roll up their sleeves and dive into the war effort was something that escaped him at present. And one thing he'd been certain of was Djaq's presence; that he would have met the two of them separately had not occurred to him.

Djaq would have known what to do, would have made everything less uncomfortable. Things would have been different if only she was here, for the brotherly camaraderie that had once existed between Allan and Will, the sense that he was irresponsible older brother to serious, introspective Will, the one who could make him smirk and sigh and roll his eyes in exasperation…well, that had been gone for a while, even when they'd both been back in England.

Looking at Will now, Allan felt as though he'd been climbing for two years, up a sheer cliff, and with the end of his struggles finally in sight. But now, unexpectedly, the ground was crumbling away underneath him, and the rope he clung to – the silver thread that had led him this far – was only a thread after all, and could not hold his weight.

* * *

The inn was small but clean, and Will told him the palace was only a few streets away. Allan looked around, feeling satisfied. There was a clean-enough looking bed, a window facing the street (which would come in handy if he needed a quick exit), and everything was pleasantly free of the smell of alcohol, urine or vomit.

"How much for a night?" Allan asked.

"No really, it's already paid for. The landlord won't mind the switch in guests."

"But I want to pay _you_," Allan said, the blood rising to his face. Couldn't he see how important this was to him? Will would _have_ to see, because Allan wasn't sure he could explain it by himself.

Will was about to answer when there was a knock at the door, and a man – dark, skinny, wheedly-looking – peered in. He spoke briefly in Arabic, and Will nodded shortly before he disappeared again into the gloomy corridor.

"You could understand that?" Allan asked incredulously.

Will glanced up at him, distracted.

"Yes – he said someone was waiting for me downstairs. Excuse me for a moment?"

He left at Allan's nod, and Allan turned to face the room: testing the bed, standing on his toes to look out the window, then noticing a small door against the wall that presumably led to an adjoining room. A thought suddenly occurred to him. Will had used the tantalising "we" when referring to staying in the inn. That "we" had been staying here up until yesterday night when they'd apparently been installed in a room at the palace. But this bed was small, a cot really, only big enough for one. So that meant…he moved across the room and tested the adjoining door.

_Locked. Interesting._

Like a crack of lightening across the sky, another idea occurred to him. Someone looking for Will…his odd demeanour…it must be Djaq! Conscious that he still had half the desert on him and appalled to discover that he wanted a basin of water to clean up what must undoubtedly be a grubby face, he pushed down a surge of irritation at Will for wanting to keep Djaq all to himself, and made for the stairs.

_Don't look too eager, don't look too eager,_ he warned himself, but already he felt a stupid smile pull at the sides of his mouth, and he burst through the door to the entrance room of the inn like a child in chase of a puppy.

Standing in the centre of the room, Will was in conversation with a Saracen who was short, jovial, dark-haired and definitely _not_ Djaq. It was a man, and as he looked up in surprise at Allan's sudden appearance, he swallowed down disappointment and took the man's measure. He was an odd looking man, middle-aged, but with a shrunken sort of look, as though he'd once been a fat man who'd lost a lot of weight in a very short amount of time. His face was soft and pudgy, his hands looked smooth and his fingers were long – he'd make a good pickpocket. After his initial surprise he turned to Will and said something in a soft, girly voice. To Allan's everlasting astonishment, Will answered back in Arabic.

A few more words passed, and then Will turned to Allan to introduce them.

"Ameer, this is my friend Allan-a-Dale, who fought with Robin Hood in Sherwood. Allan, this is Ameer-al-Dayir. He's one of the Sultan's secretaries who drafted up the peace treaty, and his nephew is the Sultan's representative in signing the document tomorrow night."

Secretly thanking Will for the abridged version of his career as an outlaw, and feeling the word "friend" echo warmly throughout his body, Allan took the man's proffered hand. His suspicions concerning the man's rank in life were confirmed: his hands were as smooth as silk and therefore the hand of a nobleman…or a thief, though that wasn't likely considering his clothing.

"Well – that's great," Allan said. "Well done you."

Will paused for a moment, then translated, hopefully conveying this sentiment more eloquently. Apparently so, as Ameer beamed amiably, then answered in silting English.

"I thank you, young man. Robin Hood, eh? Will here, he has not spoke of you. I see you tomorrow night?"

Allan looked at Will, who now seemed flustered.

"Er – yes. I suppose so. I'm sure Allan wouldn't say no to a party."

He smiled wanly. Despite Allan's discomfort at Will's reaction and his growing dislike of Ameer's congenial manner, he could not help but be pleased with the fact he'd just won himself an invitation to the party – and to Djaq.

Ameer clapped his hands together and beamed at them both – gratuitously, or so it seemed to Allan; then, with a few more words to Will, he left.

"He seemed…nice. What did he want?"

"Oh nothing – he thought I was staying here and stopped by on the way from his estate to say congratulations. He's going to be staying at the palace too."

"Congratulate you on what?"

"Oh…just…the completion of the treaty. Do you want to come to the-"

He stopped, for Allan was already nodding.

"Alright then…but I'll have to send you some clothing to wear…and I'll be busy for most of tomorrow, so I'll sent along a groom with a horse….I'll meet you at the door…"

He was talking to himself now, trying to configure the sudden presence of Allan into his already-established plans.

"And…everyone will be there," Allan nudged, hoping Will's distraction would lead him to say the name he so desperately wanted to hear.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. I should go – there's still work to be done."

Then he visibly relaxed, and looked Allan straight in the eye. "It's good to see you again. You travelled so far…as soon as all this is over, we'll have time to talk properly."

His voice was low and serious. Allan nodded gratefully, knowing that this was Will's way of saying that his time would come – that he'd get his chance to speak his piece. Then, after a strange, jittery movement that could have been the beginning of a hug, followed by a raised hand that could have been the start of a handshake, which was then turned into a flimsy wave, Will Scarlett left.

Allan stood there for a moment, running over the whirl of the last two hours, still not believing that he'd actually found his young friend, still a little bitter that he'd been denied knowledge of Djaq, still wishing that Will had caught him doing something – anything! – other than stealing food. But now, he felt that it could have been worse. He turned to see the landlord watching him with abject curiosity, and hurried back up the stairs. Maybe he'd find a bath up there somewhere: he needed a clean. After all, he _was_ going to be visiting a palace.

* * *

Will had walked two streets before slumping against a wall and allowing himself a long groan of frustration. Two veiled woman passing by glanced at him and quickly sped up. Allan! Here! Right now! The man's sense of timing defied belief.

It wasn't that he wasn't pleased to see him, or even that his reappearance was totally unexpected. There was no doubt in Will's mind that one day he'd see Allan-a-Dale again.

But his timing, as usual, was all wrong. It was almost as though he'd jumped the very first ship to Acre the moment peace was declared. Will had been close – so close – to reaching this long-sought for release. The treaty would be signed tomorrow, and he'd finally be free: free to marry his love and leave this place and go wherever the two of them chose, so long as it was a place where they could be alone together. But now…Djaq would be delighted to see Allan, want to hear his stories and updates on the rest of the gang, want to see him settled and comfortable, want to regurgitate all their old jokes and games, want to see the three of them together, united once again, even though those days were gone for good…

He'd been so _close_…

* * *

Allan had found a small basin upstairs, and after taking it down and gesturing with it to the landlord, had been given a towel, a vat of sweet-scented oil (what he supposed passed for soap around here) and shown an out-door pump. After filling the basin with water, Allan had taken both it, the towel and the vat upstairs. He was certainly not the most fragrant man in all the land. He was even making himself gag as he peeled off layers, hissing at the pain of his newly-acquired bruises. But the water was a godsend and the oil (slightly gritty and smelling of almonds and coconut milk) was surprisingly nice too.

He was nearly done when the cleaning process was interrupted by voices. The stucco buildings and cramped streets had an odd way of amplifying quiet noises from outside, but out of curiosity, Allan wrapped the towel around his waist, stood upon his cot, and peered out the window. Two men were outside, half hidden in the shadows of the buildings across the street, but it was clear from their gestures and tone of voice that they were having an argument. Allan watched in interest for a moment. Fights could sometimes lead to interesting opportunities, but in this case it seemed the disagreement was winding down.

He was just about to jump back off the bed when one of the men turned around. It was Ameer, though certainly not the blustery, affable Ameer that he had been introduced to. This Ameer was scowling and sullen, and looking far more at home with that expression than with the false geniality Allan had witnessed earlier in the day. Ameer stomped out of sight down the street, and Allan quickly craned his neck to get a better look at the other man, but already he was moving backward out of sight, into shadow. All he could be sure of was a black beard and glinting dark eyes. Allan stood there for a moment, till the slight breeze on his skin became too cool. He lay down on his cot, feeling vaguely troubled - and not about the situation with Will.

_

* * *

_

Next week: Djaq and Will fluff! Will angst!


	6. Will and Djaq

**Chapter 5: Will and Djaq**

Will woke up slowly, as though rising up from a warm, deep body of water. It was so strange to realise that he didn't need to immediately reach for his axe, or to leap straight to his feet to move on to the next hideaway as soon as possible. Even stranger was the softness of the mattress under him and the silkiness of the bed sheets. But then a dreamy smile pulled up the corners of his mouth as he realised that the strangest thing of all was that the reason for the warmth he felt all down one side of his body was Djaq.

They had been apart for months, but now, looking at her sleeping beside him, it was hard to believe they'd ever spent a day apart. Surely they'd always been like this, sharing an entire world that was all their own; a world in which nothing else existed beyond the bedroom door.

She'd crept into his room the night before and stood in front of him, calmly informing him that there was no real need to wait until the proper marriage ceremony. She hadn't gotten far into a list of well-rehearsed reasons as to why she should stay with him before he'd pulled her to him, deciding not to tell her that his decision had less to do with her logical rationalisation of the situation and more to do with the way the candlelight was glowing on her neck.

And now she was asleep in the crook of his arm, with her head turned just enough that he could see the frown on her face. That he, a dirt-poor carpenter from Locksley could end up here, in a bed chamber filled with the trappings of wealth, and the woman he loved dozing beside him…it didn't seem real.

He carefully brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and shifted slightly so as to see her better. He'd often watched her sleeping, though never at this close proximity, and the frown was nothing new. She always looked cross when she was asleep, as though she was scolding some aspect of her dreaming self.

But he wanted her awake.

Feeling a trickle of mischief flash through him, Will ran his finger from her forehead, down the tip of her nose, across her lips and down to her chin; slowly, gently. The second time he did it, she breathed in deeply, twitched a little, then relaxed again. Will's smile widened. On the third try, his finger had just met the indentation on her lower lip when her mouth suddenly slipped opened and snapped shut again on his finger. Caught between her teeth, Will had to yank his finger free with a yelp before glaring back at her face. A face that was now suspiciously serene.

"That hurt!" he said.

"Then do not wake me when I am sleeping. Especially not in such an irritating way."

A few moments passed before she gave a little sigh, opened her eyes and reached for his hand. She peered at his finger and then pressed it gently to her lips.

"I won't need to amputate this time," she said, then rolled closer so that she was half-draped over him. He took a deep breath of contentment and wrapped his arm around her waist. It wasn't worth his life to tell her, but this version of Djaq was the one he loved most: placid and sleepy-eyed and somewhat miffed at the fact that waking up was inevitable. She reminded him of a grumpy kitten, and was about as harmless as one too.

For a moment he struggled for a clever retort, and on failing that, he mustered up the effort needed to defend himself. A rather significant part of him wondered why on earth he was bothering.

"It's just that – the servants will be moving around soon. I don't want anyone to find you in here. Don't want them to think…"

He was glad she couldn't see how uncomfortable he must look, but since this was Djaq, he suspected she could tell anyway.

"I think you're more concerned with my non-existent virtue than I am. I'll go back soon," she assured him.

He settled back, happy to take any excuse that would delay her departure, allowing his mind to drift back over the previous night. The scent of her hair, the softness of her skin, the way she had moved in his arms…what they'd lacked in experience they'd more than made up for in enthusiasm. And that was only their _first _time. Soon he would be able to see her like this every morning. Every single morning for the rest of his life: waking up with her next to him, hearing her tell him good morning, smelling the scent of her hair, being able to call her his wife and not have to worry about anything, ever again.

But something was stirring in his memory, something that had happened yesterday that threatened to delay this rosy future once again…

_Allan._

"What is the matter?" Djaq muttered, her breath warm on his collarbone: he must have tensed at the thought of their friend's reappearance.

"Nothing, just…worried about the servants."

Nothing on earth could induce Will to mention Allan's name while he was lying in bed with her. He'd tell her later, maybe just before the party.

"When we are married," she said. "All of this will be over."

"What will be over?"

"All the political swampland we've had to wade through."

"Oh." He relaxed again. "Actually, after tomorrow night it'll all be over. The treaty will be signed by then. We can sneak away whenever we like."

"Where shall we go?"

"Everywhere."

"I like the sound of that."

He was silent for a moment, then began to run his fingertips across her shoulders, suddenly feeling unaccountably sad.

"I wish peace was easy. I wish English and Saracens could just..._stop fighting_. People should be like us. Peace shouldn't be signatures on a scrap of paper - it should be like us."

"I do not think that Sir Percy Lean and Alevi-al-Dayir would agree to doing to each other what we did last night. Not even for the sake of peace."

Knowing that she could feel his blush just as sure as he could feel her smile moving over his collarbone, he tugged her hair gently.

"You know what I mean."

She propped herself up to look him in the face.

"Yes I do. And you are right. A treaty is just a peace of paper. It is an agreement between two countries to stop fighting, but it will not wipe away all these years of ill-will and resentment. That is why _we _are so important. Why the Sultan wants our engagement announced along with the treaty. If we can find peace with one another, so can everyone else."

He understood, but was still unsatisfied.

"I'm not sure I like being a symbol."

"Politics, my love. I think we should go to France first."

She nestled against him for a moment, then sat up reluctantly. He watched in abject fascination as she slid out of bed and retrieved her nightgown from the floor, then grinned as she glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was watching. Slipping it over her head and down her body, she straightened up with a sulky expression on her face. She didn't want to go.

So when she leaned over to kiss him on the mouth, he grabbed her wrists, pinning them gently to the bed, and turned her little peck goodbye into something deeper. He heard a faint noise of surprise from her, but she responded readily enough. In only a few moments he felt her move forward onto the bed again, and he reluctantly released her wrists and grasped her upper arms, holding her away from him.

"Servants," he croaked, pressing his forehead to hers.

"I know," she whispered back, and moved forward one more time to kiss his cheek.

"Soon," she promised, then slipped away into the hall, and her own room.

* * *

Will settled back down on the pillows, letting every limb relax, still smelling her scent in the air, and trying not to think about Allan. He failed miserably, and now the problem of Allan stood between himself and the person he _really_ wanted to think about. Once again he found himself marvelling at his old friend's unbelievable timing. Somehow – he'd lost track of how – Allan had managed to get himself invited to the celebration tonight. Now at some point during the day he'd have to tell Djaq that Allan was here, and watch her face change from disbelief to delight.

To think that last night, after leaving Allan at the inn, he'd returned to the palace to find her waiting for him. After meeting and greeting the assembled delegates he had found on her on a balcony overlooking the city and for a few blissful minutes it had just been the two of them. Then she'd been called away to attend to Prince Malik, and Sir Percy Lean had appeared out of nowhere and requested a translator to help him discuss the dinner menu with the cooks downstairs. One thing after another. Even when peace was declared there seemed to be no peace for Will and Djaq.

And yet another part of him was looking forward to having the three of them together again. He hadn't had a chance to ask Allan about Robin and the others, and there had always been that unspoken assumption between himself and Djaq that when they had accomplished all the work that they'd set out to do in the Holy Land, they would return to England. Now they could make the journey with Allan as well, and it might…_might_ be just like old times.

It had been a long time now since Allan had changed colours and set himself up as Gisbourne's dogsbody. As far as everyone else was concerned, Allan had redeemed himself when he arrived out of nowhere to save them from a band of mercenaries hell-bent on their destruction, and stuck with them all the way to the Holy Land. An endless string of apologies and self-discrimination had echoed about them all the way to Acre, and all agreed that he'd had displayed a rather awesome display of grim silence in enduring Much's endless antagonism. After he'd left, Robin had sent several messages (almost certainly without Allan's knowledge) with Lardner that detailed Allan's behaviour and progress in Sherwood. Djaq had read the letters out loud with gleaming eyes, and Will had been pleased for her sake.

Will did not doubt that Allan regretted his defection to Guy. But he was not sure that – given the chance – Allan would not turn spy again if the price was right. Had things gone differently that fateful day; had Allan not panicked and got himself caught…who was to say that he would not have gone on telling Guy the gang's secrets, convinced that he was hurting no one and benefiting everyone?

The truth was, Will was still not sure how he felt about Allan's betrayal. When it had happened back in Sherwood, he had simply cut Allan from his mind like a seamstress would snip away a needless thread. That was the safest way to deal with the situation.

On the day his father had died, no one had been more terrified than Will himself at the red-handed grip of pain and fury that had taken hold of his mind, and torn his emotions away from his common sense. Since that day, Djaq had coined the phrase "we locked him in a cupboard" as a euphemism to describe any victory they'd achieved over spies or assassins that had tried to prevent the success of their mission. It was said mostly as a joke, but also as a gentle reminder to him to not let his hot-edged anger take control of him again. And it hadn't.

Since Dan Scarlett's death, he had tucked away that side of him in a neat little coil at the base of his heart; carefully locked away. So when Allan's betrayal had been exposed, Will ignored its sharp bite and concentrated on whatever other task was at hand.

Allan did not care about him; there was no point in caring about Allan, and as such, there was no desire to hunt the man down and make him pay for the newfound sadness in Djaq's face. The whole business was quite simple when looked at from that angle, though there had been an abundance of chopped firewood that he'd provided in the weeks following Allan's defection. But he could easily blame that on boredom rather than the need to physically vent his frustration: without Allan around to play elaborate pranks or lead him on time-wasting sojourns to the ale-house, there was more time to turn his mind and body to more important matters. And the cut branches crackled away on the fire each night, as twisted and bent as Will's hatred, till they burnt away to grey ash by morning's light.

Since then, time had done its healing business. When one was constantly on one's guard, forever trying to keep one step ahead from enemies and spies that could be lurking in every corner, one simply didn't have time to hold a grudge. Any anger he bore had simply faded away with the onset of the years, though he supposed Djaq would have described the betrayal as a wound improperly healed. It had not been cleaned, stitched or bound, only been left to slowly heal by itself. As such it had left an ugly scar.

And Allan had brought with him all those old memories, and the scar was in danger of tearing open again. Allan, his friend, who had sold them all out for money.

_How much was I?_ he wondered. Ten silver coins? How much had Djaq really been worth to Allan in the end? Twenty? What price had Allan put on all those months of camaraderie and friendship? How much had all those days and nights been sold for?

Already his fists were clenched in the bed-sheets, his heart hammering in his chest, though for a very different reason than they had been the night before.

* * *

_Fluff and angst: they go so well together!_

_Next chapter...Allan and Djaq finally come face to face. Can Allan manage without making a complete ass of himself? Probably not. _


	7. The Woman Behind the Veil

_Thank you to everyone who's taking the time to review – it's always great to get feedback._

_This is just a reminder that this story is AU. Even though it's happening *after* S3, I am not taking into account anything that might be happening on the show at the moment. (This is only partly because the show itself seems to be taking place in a parallel universe in which the events of S1 and S2 never actually happened. Weird.)_

_For those who haven't read my past fics:_

_This chapter references my short-story "The Silver Thread", which involved Allan and Djaq walking through the city streets at night._

_Also, the character Khalid was an OC from "A Stranger from the East" who was once betrothed to Safiyah. _

_Finally, strawberries have particular significance to Allan/Djaq, as seen in "Four Seasons". _

* * *

**Chapter 6: The Woman Behind the Veil**

Allan dreamed often, usually every night. Strange, nightmarish dreams that were barely remembered by the morning's light. Vague figures chased him through endless forests or lunged at him out of the darkness. Voices called out to him: the words indistinguishable, but their mocking tone unmistakable. Eyes watched him coldly no matter how fast he ran or how deeply he hid. Finally, spinning knives or speeding arrows - faster than he could ever hope to dodge - hurtled toward his face, the fright of it waking him the moment before he was struck.

But in all the time he'd been separated from them, he'd never once dreamt of Will or Djaq. Until that night.

He was at Locksley, and they were all together. Robin and Marian were tenderly bickering with each other in front of the house, Much was tucking flowers into Eve's thick blonde braid, and John and Alice were watching little John tumble about on the grass before them.

The sun was setting behind the rooftop of Locksley Hall. Everyone was lit with its red glow, and all around him was the sound of laughter and conversation. He didn't even mind that he was all alone, sitting at an outdoor table covered in food; it was enough that he was here among them.

Then a shout went up. Will and Djaq were coming down the blossom-covered hill toward Locksley, still shaking the sand of the desert from their clothes. They were met with hugs from the men and kisses from the women.

But Allan hung back, waiting for them to come to him, not sure that they would, but hoping it nonetheless. And they did, taking seats either side of him at the table and leaning toward him, eager for conversation. He found himself talking, not just about Guy and the sheriff, not just about his torture and betrayal, but before that even: about how Tom had abandoned him on the Great North Road and took all his possessions with him, about how his father's iron poker was kept in a place of menacing honour above the door, about how his mother had been so covered in bruises when she went into the ground that he almost didn't recognise her.

Anything and everything he was or could have been was poured out into their laps, and they listened. The sun was slow in its setting, wanting to give him enough time to finish, and as he went on, he was dimly aware of the others leaving. Little John had fallen asleep in his father's arms and been carried to bed, Much and Eve had snuck away, giggling to each other, Robin and Marian's argument was bourn away up the blossom-strewn hill.

When the sun had finally gone down and the stars covered the great expanse of sky, leaving the three of them in the pale light of the moon, Will stood up with a rather sad smile and looked down at the two that remained.

"Goodbye," he said, and walked away without another word.

Allan watched in confusion at his receding figure and turned to Djaq.

"Where's he going?"

"Away from here," she said serenely.

Behind them, the door to Locksley Manor opened of its own account.

"Where's Robin?" he asked. "This is his house."

Djaq gave him a quizzical look, as though he'd said something rather silly.

"This is _your_ house."

He gazed at her for a long time, at the expression on her face, one that seemed strange because he'd never seen it look so soft before.

"Shouldn't you…be with…"

She laughed, the laugh he hadn't heard in years, the laugh that only he'd ever been able to stir in her.

"No silly, I'm staying here."

One of her dark hands gently covered his own.

"But why?"

She didn't even open her mouth; the words of her answer simply bloomed in his head like a flower:

_You deserve this._

* * *

Allan opened his eyes and realised that he'd been awake for a while, having been dozing lightly on the small cot. The dream had been whisked away as swiftly as crumbs off a dirty countertop, and it was impossible to determine how long ago his subconscious had been sitting with Djaq in front of Locksley Hall. Had it only been a few minutes ago, or had several hours passed between then and now?

Either way, that moment belonged to the warm and darkened space of sleep, and he couldn't force it to return, even if sunlight _hadn't_ been spilling through the window and noises drifting in from the streets.

The day passed in an agonising wait of pacing, picked-at food and the burning desire for wine, ale or something else that could ease his nerves. Finally though, the day ended, taking with it all the intensity of heat and colour that was so prevalent in these lands. There was a knock at his door. Without waiting for any sort of consent from his guest, the skinny little landlord shuffled in with a bundle of cloth in his hands, followed closely by a small but well-dressed boy. The landlord handed the bundle to Allan, spoke rapidly in Arabic and gestured from it to the boy, before leaving the way he'd come. The boy watched him expectantly from the door.

Allan blinked out his confusion, then shook out the material in his hands. It was a Saracen garb: a long billowy shirt that would reach almost down to his knees, with wide sleeves and high collar. It was dark blue, stitched with gold thread, and it smelt like limes and milk. For a while he just held it out in front of him, looking at it, wondering how much money it was worth. The last time he'd had clothes as fine as these, they'd cost him more than he'd been willing to pay. And now they were a gift. Presumably from Will, and presumably not for keeps, but given in order to grant him passage into Eastern nobility.

He pulled off his shirt and tugged the shirt over his head, straightening its hem down over his pants, feeling as though he was passing into some other world. Not even black leather had made him feel this far away from the forests of Sherwood. He ran one hand down the softness that now covered his torso, and nodded at the expectant boy. Together they descended the stairs and moved out into the winding streets.

By now his heart felt as though it had turned into Lardner, beating his wings frantically within his chest, wanting only to free himself and clatter off into the night. His instinct was straining against the darkness and unfamiliar surroundings, just as they had on the night long ago when he'd wandered in the same directionless way through strange streets. But that time, he'd been following Djaq, and it was harder to shake his natural distrust and fear of ambushes, muggings and traps when he was being led by a stranger.

Then Lardner seemed to convulse and die all over again when they reached their destination and the boy knocked at a small postern door in a high wall. On opening, the boy ushered Allan inside. It was obviously a servant's thoroughfare, and yet just as obviously the servant's door of a grand estate, judging from the width of the door and the steady stares of the armed guards standing either side.

Allan avoided their gaze as he passed between them, and emerged in a garden lit by lanterns, awash with the sounds of night-birds, and cooled by the presence of several large pools. Everything that grew was pungent and moist and he could feel the coolness of hidden greenery on his skin. But there was no time to soak in its presence, for the boy was hurrying up the path before him. He had only just enough time to glance at his reflection in a vast expanse of water that had a bubbling spring at its centre. The ripples of the spring did not reach the pool's edges, and his own face looked up at him as clearly as if he was looking in a mirror. It looked both awed and apprehensive.

Around another corner, and Allan nearly fled in the opposite direction. The lights of the palace before him spilled out onto the lawns, illuminating every blade of grass and trickle of water. An expansive flight of white stairs led up to the open doors of an even more expansive room and as he watched, couples and groups of people strolled out to taste the night air. Nothing seemed quite real – the strange yellow ambiance streaming from the palace reminded him of that ruddy sunset that had lit the interior of his dream. Was this still part of the dream?

He searched for the boy, only to see him scampering through a tiny servant door. Allan doubted he was meant to follow, but to his profound relief he recognised the tall figure and long stride of one of the party-goers descending the palace steps.

If indeed it was Will. Allan remembered him best as an all-but-silent youth in grubby clothes whose life revolved around only three things: feeding the poor, tinkering with wood, and pining over Djaq. But now, dressed in fine garb and with a newfound confidence to his gait, Allan felt the familiar pangs of uneasiness. This wasn't the Will he remembered, even as he smiled in welcome:

"I see Shawqi delivered you alright. How do you like the clothes?"

Will looked speculatively at the shirt, and Allan prayed he was wearing it correctly.

"Yeah nice. Haven't worn clothes this good since-"

He began to cough violently. What on earth had he said _that_ for?

When he looked up again Will's face had stiffened. He took taken a deep breath, and Allan tried to ignore the fact that he was clearly bracing himself.

"Come on then – I'll show you around. There's a lot to get through his evening, but as soon as things settle down, Djaq and I can find us all a quiet place."

_Djaq._ He said her name. She was here. A high-pitched humming noise in Allan's mind suddenly sprang several octaves higher and it appeared that his inner-Lardner had several dramatic death-throes left to thrash in the region of his ribcage.

He fell into step beside Will. As they moved up the wide stairs, Will turned and smiled quickly back at him. He was excited now, Allan realised – excited to be sharing this with him, and eager to gauge his response to what would follow. He swallowed his fear, returned the smile and stepped into the Sultan's summer palace.

* * *

His eyes simply weren't big enough to take everything in. The high walls were of some warm peachy-coloured stone, giving the rooms the air of a lofty and luxurious cave, and the heat of the candles and bodies crushed him like a physical thing. More sweat began to prickle on his face, as if his nerves weren't doing a good enough job of drenching him already. Everything seemed to be shining: the polished floor, the glinting tableware, the sparkling jewels on the women, as well as the endless array of candles on every table and sideboard, all of which threw out their own trembling light and caught the gleam of everything else. For a moment he could only stand and look, though the sight of the silver cutlery lined up on the banquet table soon had his fingers itching. It wouldn't take much effort to slip some of it into the folds of his clothing…

But Will was beside him, pulling him into another room, one which seemed even more brilliant due to the large mirrors hung on the walls. They gave the impression that there were hundreds more rooms beyond this one, each one just as finely decorated, each one just as filled with people. And the people that filled such a room were like none that Allan had ever seen before, not even among the noble's court at Nottingham Castle. Every head of hair – man or woman's – was pomaded and extravagantly set, every suit or gown was as bright as a flower, every person seemed to float in a cloud of their own perfume. Gazing at all this splendour, Allan felt himself falter. Will seemed to be heading with a specific destination in mind, and Allan was acutely aware of the mood of the crowd as he passed. They turned their heads to watch his approach and parted slightly in order to ease his path. There were nods and smiles. Indulgent, wary, friendly or polite smiles, but Allan knew respect when he saw it. This glittering crowd was paying homage to a carpenter from Locksley, and they knew it.

_What are you doing here?_ a nasty little voice in his head suddenly hissed. _Get back to the ditch._

He shoved it aside as he began to search the sea of dark heads for Djaq.

"Look, there's Sir Percy Lean," Will said, nodding his head toward a portly-looking man who was laughing loudly at something the men around him were saying. Allan suddenly recognised the men as those who had bestowed on him the assorted bruises of the day before.

"He's signing the peace treaty on behalf of England," Will continued. "And look, over there – that's Alevi. He's Ameer's nephew, and he's signing on behalf of the Sultan."

Allan followed Will's gaze just long enough to catch sight of a surprisingly young Saracen who had just entered the room, and bore traces of his uncle's features in his own face. However, unlike Ameer, the cheerful and eager look on young Alevi's face looked sincere as he began to greet the flock of people who'd instantly surrounded him.

"Oh, and over there – that's Prince Malik. Remember him? He drew up the terms of the treaty."

Allan looked with interest, recognising the handsome, cat-like features, but doubting that the man he remembered best as He-Who-Stuck-Pins-Into-Heads would recall him.

Will exchanged a few words with him in Arabic, then turned to Allan, who managed to hear the name "Robin" in his address and so assumed that he was being introduced as one of his men.

"Ah!" exclaimed Malik, and gave Allan a gracious bow of his head, even though the blankness of his eyes clearly betrayed the fact that he had no idea who Allan was. Just as well really; their previous acquaintance had not been a particularly friendly one.

_This is what happens when cousins marry,_ he recalled with a touch of resentment. _Superstitious, ignorant outlaws._

Allan delved into the dregs of his memory and summoned up what little he remembered of the man.

"So, is your uncle still trying to kill you?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Will wince, but Malik was too regal to do anything but blink in the most refined way possible and reply:

"My uncle Sala-ad-Din is ruthless in the ways of both war and peace. Tonight, thankfully, we celebrate the onset of peace."

A few more words passed between himself and Will before he bowed and moved on, a line of serving women shadowing his footsteps. Allan was getting impatient now, especially with the surplus of veils being worn. What was the point of feminine beauty if they were all forced to hide it away? As he trailed after Will like a string-pulled toy he did manage to catch the eye of a young woman carefully pouring wine into a goblet on the banquet table along the side of the room.

She was dressed in flowing robes, with curtains of both hair and veil shrouding her face, but her arms were slim and graceful as she filled the goblet. She was too tall to be Djaq, he quickly decided, but she had the same sense of self-possession and carried herself with pride. He realised only much later that these were rather odd traits to be found in a serving girl.

She caught him looking at her, raised her eyebrows and gave a mocking little bow before departing out a side-door. Not sure how to feel about that Allan let his attention be claimed once again by Will, who was beckoning someone toward him.

Allan looked up into another Saracen face, though it was a few moments before he recognised who it was. He'd only ever seen him once, in Sherwood Forest, just before his departure. It was Khalid, and he was shaking Will's hand as though the two of them were the best of friends, speaking in fluent Arabic. Allan shuffled hesitantly, but thankfully Khalid seemed to be in a hurry: he gave him only a short nod before disappearing once more into the crowd.

Will looked after him, brow furrowed.

"That was odd," he muttered to himself.

"How come you two are-"

But before Allan managed to complete his question Will made a quick, jerking motion with his head. He had obviously spotted someone ahead. Allan followed his gaze, searching the crowd that swelled and receded like the tide, his eyes searching at approximately at the same pace as his heart was racing. She was close by. This was it.

"Wait here," Will said, then gently shouldered his way through the waves of party-goers, his voice calling out over their heads.

"Safiyah!"

Allan's heart instantly sank. Another delegate or nobleman that he didn't care two figs about. Maybe he should just leap onto the nearest chair and start yelling: "Djaq! Djaq!" till someone fetched her for him. Or until she herself appeared and ordered him to shut up and get down.

But here was Will again, holding a veiled woman by the elbow, and pulling her gently through the throng. Allan summoned up his smile, but allowed himself the pleasure of mentally thwacking the equally hesitant smile off Will's face. If he didn't want to introduce Allan to perfect strangers, then why was he doing it? Allan would have been happy to prowl about the banquet table whilst Will socialised.

Will manoeuvred the woman in front of Allan and looked at him with what was now an unfathomable expression on his face. Keeping up with the sweep of changing moods upon his friend's face was beginning to make him dizzy, so Allan simply gave a short nod to the tiny lady, and flickered his eyes into the crowd again as he waited for Will to make the introduction.

Then the woman spoke, and in his entire body seemed to turn to stone.

"Allan?"

Only his eyes were capable of moving as they followed the direction of the voice and settled on a pair of large brown eyes watching him from above the edge of a dark veil. Her raised eyebrows suggested shock. One hand slowly rose to her ear and unclasped the veil. It swung back across her face like a shadowy drape, and finally, there she was: the long sought-for Djaq.

Only it wasn't. The last time he'd seen her, the clearest memory he had, was a scruffy head of ragged curls, dirt-stained clothes and a determined jaw. But now this...

Her hair was glossy and smooth, falling past her ears to her shoulders. Her once-thick eyebrows had been shaped into elegant black strokes. She was dressed in a gown of her own people, hugging the curves that had always been unfairly concealed in Sherwood Forest. And her face…he tried to understand how it could contain the same dear features, and yet be so different – so much softer and delicate and _feminine_. That was it.

Whatever manly airs and mannerisms she's once worn about her were gone completely. This was Djaq as she had been, long before setting foot on English soil, long before becoming an outlaw.

It was probably only a few seconds he'd been staring at her – possibly more – but she seemed just as stunned as he, and so both were unable to do anything but gape for a while. Then one side of her mouth lifted in dazed wonderment, and words finally formed at the back of his throat.

"Still short," he told her.

She raised a challenging eyebrow.

"Still rude," she shot back.

"I see you took my advice about girl's clothes."

"I recall a deal in which I agreed to wear a dress on the condition that _you_ did. Shall I call the palace wardrobe assistant to have you fitted?"

He couldn't help it. He beamed at her. The noise of the party fell away, and even Will's piercing gaze only bounced off Allan's obliviousness. There was nothing but Djaq, finally standing in front of him after a seemingly endless stretch of two years, hundreds of miles and more close encounters with death than he cared to count. He'd done it. He'd made it back to her.

"How did you…what are you _doing here_?" she cried in obvious delight. "Will told me that there was a surprise waiting, but I had no idea…where did you…how…"

"Well, peace was declared and I heard the best party was here. I mean, it wasn't _too_ far away, and the Sultan told me it just wouldn't be the same without me. There were one or two people I wanted to catch up with. A chance to see the desert again. All that sand. Plus, I heard the food wasn't bad either."

"No strawberries though," she said in mock disappointment.

Lardner had burst back to life and was singing rapturously.

"You look…so...different," he said, reigning in his mouth just in time and flicking his eyes up and down her figure. She opened her mouth to reply, but in the space of a moment the smile fled her face. She gave a soft: "ouch!" and pulled her elbow out of Will's hand. As she turned to him quizzically, Allan ran his eyes down to where white finger marks had appeared on her dark arm – as though Will had suddenly tightened his grip on her.

Djaq recovered, though she still looked a little bewildered. "Silly," she muttered to Will affectionately and slipped her arm into the crook of his own, resting her head against his shoulder for a brief moment.

Allan watched this exchange in silence, but just then a servant chose that moment to hustle close to Will and whisper something in his ear. Will's shoulders sagged.

"Lord Alevi is looking for me," he explained, and then with a regretful look at Djaq and a hesitant step away, he realised he was dithering and stalked off after the manservant.

Allan waited till he was out of sight, then turned back to Djaq, feeling as though the width of his grin would break his face.

* * *

_Allan: he can be so oblivious when he wants to be!_

_Next chapter concerns the rest of Allan/Djaq's reunion, and what other mischief he manages to make at the party..._


	8. The Darkness in the Palace

**Chapter 7: The Darkness in the Palace**

Djaq was still wavering between delight and shock. He was content to just stand and drink in the sight of her.

"When did you arrive?"

"Just a few days ago. I went to Bassam's house first, and 'e told me I could find you 'ere."

She was still shaking her head in disbelief, and for a moment he wanted to reach out and touch her, just to prove to the both of them that he was really there. But she looked so…so _wealthy _standing there, with her sleek glossy hair and the jewellery hung about her neck, wearing a red dress that made the infamous yellow gown look like a peasant's rag in comparison.

A servant approached and offered her a goblet of wine; she waved it away impatiently and he felt his heart contract for what seemed like the thousandth time that evening. Little Djaq – one of the lads, running around Sherwood Forest, eating rats and squirrels, sleeping on the cold ground in a heap – had just ordered away a servant with a lazy wave of her hand. Again he fought the desperate, hopeless feeling that somehow his two friends had passed beyond and above him somehow.

He shook the thought away impatiently. This was _Djaq _for heaven's sake! Behind all the glamour, she was still wearing the same smile, and as she raised her right hand to brush back her hair, he noticed that her fingers were not ornamented. No rings of any kind, wedding band or otherwise. That was interesting. He had been sure that the two of them would be hitched by now. Maybe it was a secret. Her people surely weren't the sort to approve of a Muslim woman marrying a Christian man. He could ask her he supposed – but why rush that inevitability?

"How are you? How are the others? They're not with you are they?"

She leaned around him suddenly, as though expecting to see Robin, Much and John in his wake. He reached out and straightened her up, feeling silk under his palms.

"No," he laughed. "Just me I'm afraid."

"How are they? How are _you_? We heard about Prince John's defeat and the sheriff's death. We weren't sure whether any of you were dead or alive. Lardner never turned up with any messages."

"We're all fine," he said, but decided to give her news of the happy kind. "John went to find his family. Much got married."

Djaq smile grew.

"Dear Much. I knew he'd find his happiness eventually."

She didn't ask about Robin. She already knew.

Without realising it, they'd retreated to a small divan against the wall and sat down facing each other, heads bowed close together. Their hands rested on the edge of the seat, the little finger of Djaq's right hand just brushing the little finger of Allan's left.

"How did you two manage to land in the middle of all this?" He gestured widely at the palace.

"Long story. Very long story. It started when we realised that-"

A shadow fell over them, and the two looked up like two guilty children caught behind a tree.

It was Ameer, vast and gleaming in his robes, gazing down with smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes. To Allan surprise, he spoke in English.

"Safiyah – you are running off with _another _Englishman? Where do you keep them all?"

She smiled back coolly, the smile Allan recognised as the one that usually preceded a man's death. It was every bit as false as Ameer's.

"Of course not Lord Ameer. This is Allan-a-Dale, an old acquaintance. He is one of Robin Hood's men, come to witness the peace treaty on his behalf."

"We've met," Allan said firmly. Whatever game Ameer was playing, Allan knew that Djaq would have a better chance of winning if she had all the information.

Djaq raised an eyebrow. "Indeed."

Ameer shuffled uncomfortably and cleared his throat.

"That is right," he nodded his head at Allan without looking at him. "I remember. I just came to _congratulate_ you, my dear."

She nodded serenely. "Thank you. Will and I have fought hard for this."

Ameer chuckled in what Allan thought was supposed to be a fatherly manner – if so, he failed at it miserably.

"Little Safiyah. The kitten who thinks she is a tiger."

He smiled condescendingly down at her, and Allan felt her hand curl into a fist beside him. He could almost _hear_ her struggle against the sharp retort that wanted to fling itself at her opponent.

Instead she bowed her head demurely. Allan didn't know whether to feel disappointment or admiration.

"When I see Salah Ad-Din, I shall pass on news of you," Ameer said, then turned and disappeared back into the crowd.

Djaq's face instantly sank into dislike.

"Horrid little man," she spat. "He was in the war council with Salah Ad-Din and is possibly the most precious general ever to grace the earth. The man hates getting his hands dirty. He funds most of the campaigns – that lets him get all the glory without any of the risk."

"Yeah – I noticed his hands the other day. Really girly."

He glanced down at Djaq's own hands, remembering how rough and calloused they were.

"Wait, when did you meet Ameer?" she asked.

"Yesterday. At the inn Will put me up at. 'E popped up to…to congratulate 'im…"

He trailed away, suddenly wondering what exactly Will and Djaq were being congratulated _about_.

"I think he's just bitter that it is his nephew signing the treaty and not him." She smiled evilly at the prospect. "Just think – it'll be Alevi's name on the parchment for all of history to see. Not Ameer's. No wonder he's so…cronky."

"Cranky?"

"Yes, that."

They smiled at each other for a moment, then Djaq's eyes flicked away to the side.

"Oh – that is…I'm sorry, Will's giving me the sign that he wants me to come rescue him. He's talking to Alevi – no wonder. We'll talk more soon."

He watched her go, and just managed to catch a glimpse of Will, standing in a crowd of people and tugging inconspicuously on his earlobe. He smiled down gratefully as Djaq approached and slipped her arm under his.

* * *

Djaq did not come back. Wherever she was, Will was probably keeping her busy. Allan circled the room slowly, trying not to salivate at the riches on display. Finally he came to a stop near the high dais at one head of the wall where he fidgeted awkwardly for a while, until:

"ALLAN-A-DALE!"

Allan blinked in astonishment. The voice was an unfamiliar one, thick with a Saracen accent, but spoke as though it was greeting a long-lost friend. It was the kind of tone Allan had hoped to hear Will use on seeing him again. He turned to see a reasonably young man – perhaps his own age – beaming at him. Allan felt as though he'd seen him before, though only recently. Had he been one of the men Will had pointed out to him? But he had little time to think, for now the man was using his left hand to heartily clap Allan on the shoulder, his right pumping Allan's own in a vigorous handshake.

"I am Alevi-al-Dayir, he who is signing peace on behalf of Salah Ad-Din! And you are Allan-a-Dale, friend to William Carpenter. My lady Safiyah has spoken of you much."

The man was utterly encrusted with jewels. There was not an earlobe or a finger or a square-inch of clothing on him that did not have something precious glinting from it. He seemed to be acutely aware of this fact, for he was constantly twisting a ring about his knuckle or twirling a dangling earring around his finger. Allan got the distinct impression that it was all newly acquired, and that this extravagant display was all for the benefit of showing off. Yet despite such posturing he did not sense anything false or crafty in Alevi's face. His eyes were wide and interested, his smile was welcome and genuine.

But something he had said pricked in his mind.

"She has?"

"Yes – she says you worked as spy for Robin of the Hood – you who sneak into enemy land and capture secrets."

Allan tried to smile at Djaq's version of events (obviously seriously abridged in order to gain him some measure of esteem) but could only manage a guilty sort of grimace.

"And now – you are rewarded! For now you walk in the presence of great lords. Come – you must feast!"

He slapped Allan on the back and led him to a banquet table – unsure how to proceed, Allan let himself be swept along by both the noise and authority of the man, and stood by as his new companion selected delicacies from the banquet table and heaped them onto the plate he'd handed him, talking all the while.

Allan shook off his confusion in order to get the man's measure. He was loud, flamboyant, gaudily dressed – in England he would have been called a fop. But there was more to him than this: a strange edginess to his movements. Surely the gestures were too exaggerated to be normal, surely his voice didn't need to be raised _quite_ so loud. He was, Allan realised, nervous about something. Allan himself had displayed the same forced joviality and unnecessary generosity in the few weeks or so in which he'd been spying for Gisbourne. Though he flattered himself into thinking he'd reined in most of his emotions during that time, it was clear that Alevi was not capable of such subtlety. Instead he talked and moved continuously to blot out whatever it was that was troubling him.

Or so Allan guessed. He was becoming rapidly distracted by the dual scent of the food piling up on his plate and the perfume of the women who trailed Alevi like magpies hopping after the glitter of his jewels.

"Now – come!" he cried, taking Allan's elbow and steering him toward a small alcove against the wall in which sat a small divan. There were several such alcoves lining the expansive room, most darkened so that the inhabitants were hidden in shadow.

Allan sat, awkwardly balancing the plate on his knees while Alevi lounged back, in much the same posture as Allan had used in the forests of Sherwood: sprawled comfortably down as though the entire place belonged to him. Of course, this demeanour was considerably more impressive in an actual palace than in the woods, and Allan still couldn't shake the discouraging feeling that all the splendour around him was gazing back at him disdainfully.

"Now – speak!" Alevi commanded. "Tell me of Robin the Hood!"

Allan opened his mouth, wondering where to begin, and had just begun with an uncertain: "Er…" when Alevi sat bolt upright, raised his hands and cried out: "_Khilaan Ameer_!"

His eyes were on someone in the midst of the undulating crowd and he leapt up, pausing only briefly to excuse himself, and hurried away, dragging the assortment of whispering and giggling women in his wake. Allan felt like he'd been attacked by a peacock that had just as quickly abandoned the fight and flapped off elsewhere.

He watched as Alevi embraced a man, who he recognised as Ameer, wearing a weak smile and demonstrating an agitated tendency to glance about the room. Allan only had a glimpse of him before the crowds swallowed him up, but it was enough. Something was going on here – all this glint and polish and silk that whispered and winked around him was concealing something unsavoury. Much like the oiled sheen of Guy's leather had concealed a ruthless heart and the stench of an unwashed body.

He shuffled back onto the sofa and felt a sudden headache coming on. Out of all the absurd things he'd imagined to experience in the Holy Land, this had not even brushed the corners of his mind. All he wanted was to speak to Will and Djaq – somewhere quiet, somewhere private. But they were already too caught up in this world; they had been for two years now and were a part of it. And a part of each other, in a way that he'd missed out on.

His clothing was suddenly stifling him, and he dug his finger in under the collar. He probably looked as absurd as a dancing bear. As ridiculous as he'd once been cavorting around Nottingham Castle in black leather.

"You seem unhappy."

He jumped and almost sent the contents of the plate out over the floor. Standing beside the alcove was a veiled woman, as slender and graceful as a sapling in Sherwood Forest. He peered into the gloom, trying to determine whether this was the woman he'd seen pouring drinks earlier. He couldn't be sure, but the goblet she held was certainly an indication that she _was_.

Gliding forward, she brushed her trailing skirts aside and sat next to him, offering the goblet of dark wine. He took it wordlessly, still bracing the plate on his knees, noticing out the corner of his eye that a man was loitering behind her, his eyes fixed on the party – a shaved, non-descript man in black – probably a servant. Perhaps he was some sort of manservant, ordered to hang around like a lump till he was ordered to fetch something. Yet there was something about him…something familiar…

But before he had time to take a closer look, a scent washed over him, one of spice and musk and warmth, the scent he'd always associated with Djaq. He looked up again at the woman, mildly surprised at himself that he'd been distracted by a servant when a member of the opposite sex was standing in front of him. Though he couldn't see her face beyond the gauze of the veil, he could see that she had a long curtain of dark hair that looked as smooth and shiny as water, and her voice was young and girlish – though perhaps a little husky. He suspected that she might be a few years younger than Djaq.

"You are Safiyah's friend?"

He nodded dumbly.

"You have come from England?"

"Y-yes."

He cleared his throat, attempting to convey some degree of intelligence.

"I'm Allan-"

"-a-Dale," she finished. "I heard Lord Alevi."

"You must have exceptional hearing then."

The unmistakable sounds of soft laughter trailed out from beneath her veil, and Allan was impressed that she recognised sarcasm. He turned around slightly in his seat to face her properly, and she reached forward, took an almond from the plate and pressed it to his bottom lip. Startled, he opened his mouth to take it from her.

"It's seasoned with saffron powder," she told him, smiling with her eyes. "It stimulates the blood flow."

A hush seemed to have fallen across the rooms, and Allan tore his eyes from the woman in the vain attempt to see what was going on. He heard the whispery rush of silk at his side and the scent of spice and fruit suddenly rushed over him like a gentle wave. The woman had edged closer to him. Somewhere beyond the shifting bodies of the crowd, a voice was speaking loudly across their heads.

"That's Lord Ameer," the woman told him. "He's welcoming the guests to the Sultan's palace, especially those that have come on behalf of peace." She cocked her head toward the garbled noise of Arabic, and continued to quietly translate for him.

"He's talking about how the last of the treaties will be signed tomorrow by Sir Lean and-" she hesitated for a moment – "Alevi." Allan glanced at her curiously. She had spoken that last name in a strained, odd sort of tone.

"He's saying it's a time for great celebration, and for honouring the wisdom of the Sultan and the ferocity of Salah Ad-Din." Her voice had returned to normal, though her fingers were twisted together tightly on her lap.

"Now he calls upon Sir William and Safiyah to join him."

Allan immediately whipped his head around, craning his neck to see. Maybe he should just stand and risk spilling the contents of the plate on the floor. The woman leaned across and took it from him, her hand brushing across his knees, leaving him with just the wine. Together they stood, and now he could see Will and Djaq walking solemnly across the dais together, hand in hand.

_Is that allowed?_ Allan wondered, fearful for their safety. Yet there was no uproar – just a sense of approval: nods and indulgent chuckles. The couple stood before Ameer, Sir Lean, and a variety of other noble-looking Saracens, their eyes locked on each other.

"That piece of paper Ameer is holding? That's the _nikkah nama_," she said. "The marriage contract that they'll sign the same day as the lords sign the peace treaty."

Ameer was holding it up to the sound of polite applause. A servant approached Will with a small box that was opened for him, and he drew out a small glinting object.

_A ring._

"That's the _shabka_, she said. "Safiyah has no family, and so there is no need for William to provide a _mahr_.

Allan had no idea what she was talking about, and only watched as Will slipped the ring onto Djaq's finger and – on an impulse that drew good-natured laughter from the crowd – kissed her hand. Even from here Allan could see the dewy-eyed expression on Djaq's face. Allan tried to keep his face entirely expressionless, uncertain how to feel about this latest development. Part of him had assumed they'd already be married – how could they not be after so long? And yet they weren't. And yet they practically _were_. A strange numbness had taken over him and he could only stand and stare, his brow furrowed as he tried to figure out exactly what this meant. People around him were clapping, including his new companion.

"And now – they are betrothed," the woman said with satisfaction. "Peace is personified in their union."

His heart was thumping, and the familiar coil of jealousy and spite that hung within him tightened, as it always did when he saw another's happiness; as it did whenever he witnessed something that left him wondering why that which looked so simple and easy to others constantly eluded him.

This was even worse than if he'd come and found them married. That way the worst would have been over, he could have simply re-established himself in a dynamic that was already sealed. But this…he'd have to watch them caught up in each other, concentrating on their new relationship with one another, revelling in their togetherness. He'd be a third wheel of the worst kind. No wonder Will wasn't pleased to see him.

They'd stepped down off the dais, and he jumped to see that they were approaching him, the crowds parting to let them through. He looked around only to find that the woman had disappeared, along with the shadowed man who had lingered near at the edge of his vision. Pity – it would have been nice if Will had seen him mingling with someone. He took a gulp of the wine and braced himself.

_Be happy_. he told himself firmly, and forced his mouth into a grin as they neared. Will looked proud and a trifle smug. Djaq looked flushed and relieved. Allan raised his goblet toward them.

"Congratulations," he said and drank deeply. "It would seem I really did come just in time. Do I get to see you in a white dress?"

Djaq laughed, and shook her head.

"No. It will be a rather nondescript wedding, I'm afraid. We just sign the _nikkah nama_ when it is presented to us. It's the peace treaty that will be the most important document of the day."

"But still…you two…you've been up to a lot since I last saw you, haven't you?"

"Yes," agreed Will. "But then I'm sure you have too. As soon as there's time, we'll talk."

"There's not time now?"

Will looked uncomfortable, and glanced at Djaq. She tried to explain:

"There are some still opposed to the marriage. It is important that we don't hide away or avoid any questions people need to ask us. We need to-" She waved her hand uncertainly at the crowd pressing up behind them, full of faces that were turned curiously toward them.

"I get it. Mingle." He tipped his goblet toward them again. "I've got plenty of food here. I'll see you later."

Djaq looked back once as Will led her away again, her face full of a silent apology. Allan watched the contours of the red dress till it was swallowed by the crowd.

* * *

The party was winding down. The dull roar of a thousand gabbing mouths had quietened, and most of the crowd had dispersed. He'd lost sight of Will and Djaq long ago, and instead wandered the edges of the crowd, simply watching. Though he'd seen him, he hadn't spoken to Alevi again. It was a pity, he suddenly realised. Despite the man's boisterousness, he'd made Allan feel welcome. He hadn't seen the woman either, though he wasn't sure what to think about that. Logically speaking, it was a pity…though he couldn't help but feel relieved as well, though for what reason he couldn't guess.

He had no idea what to do next, so he trailed away outside, feeling drowsy from the wine, and already wondering how he was going to negotiate the streets to his small cot at the inn. He probably wouldn't make it five steps before he was mugged by some cutthroat – maybe he should hunker down under a shrub in this garden somewhere. The night was warm and the grass looked soft. He glanced back up at the palace, wondering what room was Djaq's. What one was Will's. Whether they shared the same one. Sighing, he turned away, only for his back to stiffen as his sharp ears caught the sound of footsteps behind him. Friend or foe? He fastened his hand on the hilt of his knife and spun around, drawing out a startled yelp from the veiled woman.

Her eyes flickered from his face to the knife. "Where are you going?"

Sighing in relief, he gestured vaguely.

"Bed. Sleep," he said. Once again her tinkling laughter – like a tiny silver bell; not at all like Djaq's – escaped the shadows of her veil.

"There is an apartment ready for you in the palace," she told him. "It's all prepared. Come – I will show you."

Odd. Will hadn't mentioned a room. But blinking heavily, and now only wanting a pillow to lie his head on, he followed her back up the stairs and down a hallway…then another…then another.

_How big is this place?_ he thought blearily.

There were steps up, a walk across a landing, down more steps, and finally a corridor lined with doors. She opened one, and gestured him inside. He gave a low, impressed whistle as he entered. The room was dominated by a bed that could have held a large family, with posts that looked as thick as tree trunks. Though it was hard to see in the dim light, he could tell the walls were heavily adorned with gemstones that glinted in the moonlight flowing through the casement. He'd have to investigate it more closely in the morning, and see if they could be pried loose with the tip of a knife. But right now, the bed was looking invitingly soft after the length, heat and stress of the day.

He turned to thank his hostess and was mildly surprised to find she'd followed him in.

"Er…thank you," he said. Why was she still standing there? All he wanted to do now was mope in peace.

Her intentions became clear rather quickly, and after the initial surprise of arms around his waist and a soft mouth covering his own, he felt the weariness of his mind and body flee the room. Was this some kind of Saracen greeting custom? Pity Djaq never tried it.

But now the achingly familiar scent of spices and honey was wafting up from the girl's dark hair into his mind, and he had just enough presence of mind left to recall the last time he'd done this, and mutter: "what's your name?"

"It doesn't matter," came the reply.

_Fine with me, _he thought, letting his mind sink into her, and his body get pushed back onto the bed.

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed; reviews appreciated._

_Next chapter: the murder mystery finally gets underway...with a dead body._


	9. A Scream in the Night

_In which there is Will-angst, Allan-angst, and dead body._

* * *

**Chapter Eight: A Scream in the Night**

It was late, the party was all but over, and Will and Djaq had found a shadowy alcove in which to quietly celebrate their betrothal. When Will finally drew away from her, panting slightly, he cleared his throat a little hesitantly.

"Tonight?"

With a sigh she leaned in close and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Not tonight," she replied. Even though her voice was muffled against his shirt, he could hear its wistfulness. "Too many people will be bed-hopping tonight. The corridors will be like market day at the bazaar. That reminds me – what happened to Allan?"

Will didn't feel like asking whether it was bazaars or beds that had called Allan to mind, and so answered her question instead.

"I paid Shawqi to escort him here and back. He's probably back at the inn by now…" he trailed off vaguely. She had moved back slightly, her expression expectant. He stifled a groan. "…so I should probably go and ask if he got back safely."

"Alright," she said with a smile. "I am feeling a little guilty about abandoning him like we did, especially when I think of how long he must have travelled to get here."

"Maybe I should have told you that he was here."

"_Maybe_," she said wryly. "But other than that, things went well, didn't they?"

He took her hand in his own and rubbed his thumb over her newly-acquired ring.

"Yes, very well. Did you have fun?"

"Fun? I would not go _that_ far!"

"I saw you talking to Ameer. He wasn't too…aggravating was he?"

Djaq scowled. "I would love to lock him in a cupboard one of these days."

"What did he say this time?"

"Just…insinuations. It doesn't matter." She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him goodnight. "I will see you tomorrow."

As she glided away down the corridor, Will felt an odd pang for her crop of boyish hair and the bulky waistcoat and pants that she'd worn about Sherwood Forest. A part of him had never gotten used to this new, more feminine Djaq. She turned the corner, and he was finally able to lean back and groan to himself, low and deep in his throat.

_Bloody Allan!_

Why did he have to be here _now_? This was the time Will had been waiting for all these years, the day he could finally stop worrying about the future, the day that he and Djaq were declared to the world, the day peace was assured. Throwing Allan into the midst of a tentative peace was like letting loose a swarm of termites into a room full of furniture…as soon as someone sat down, the whole edifice would collapse.

He had been here only a few hours and Will had already had to fend off questions from Alevi concerning the arrival of their new friend. Luckily Djaq had noticed his secret ear-pulling sign and managed to spin a tale about how Allan had been working as a spy back in Nottingham; stringing out the fib as eloquently as….well, as Allan himself.

But of course, if Will was being honest with himself, he knew that it was more than the potential risk to peace that was bothering him. He did not doubt Djaq, not for a moment, not after all they'd been through together…but sometimes he would think back to Sherwood Forest, remembering the way she had acted around Allan – more cheerful, more open…and she'd certainly never put a stop to the man's flirting. Sometimes Will couldn't help but feel that if things had gone differently…if Allan hadn't shown his true colours…maybe Will Scarlett wouldn't have been Djaq's first choice.

For it was only _after_ Allan's defection that Will and Djaq had grown closer together. Beforehand, their three-cornered friendship had been silently defined by the declaration he and Allan had made on the day she'd been captured by the sheriff – the declaration that had never been mentioned after its utterance. But it had ensured a long-standing stalemate between the three of them, tempered by Djaq's own disdainful attitude toward matters of the heart. Even as they'd grown closer as friends, certain things were never said out loud.

Then one day he'd woken up and found that the familiar dynamic that had steadied him; restrained him; even calmed him at times, no longer stood between himself and his heart's desire. Allan's betrayal, in an odd way, had been a _relief._ Their unspoken truce concerning Djaq was gone forever; Will no longer had to feel a tinge of guilt every time he shared a smile or a brief touch with her – instead he could enjoy it for what it was, and for the first time he began to hope; really _hope._ She was right before him, no strings attached, if only he dared act on the opportunity.

Yet even then her own demeanour had silenced him. Even after she'd stopped standing up for Allan in his absence, insisting on his worthiness; even after the dark, fixed expression on her face had faded away, he'd never known for sure whether it was her own adverse feelings toward the topic of love or Allan's lingering presence in the camp or his own confusion at the situation that made him keep his thoughts so firmly to himself.

And even when it happened; when love had finally been declared, the first words she'd uttered in the moments after she'd kissed him were: "it's Allan!" They had jolted him out of the dizzying peace that he'd wanted to carry with him into death, and for a long time he'd feared that that kiss was given for the same reason he'd once shaken Allan's hand in the panic-stricken courtyard of Nottingham Castle.

And now his former best-friend was back again, stirring up trouble in the best way he knew how. He'd not been reunited with Djaq for more than two seconds – two _seconds!_ – and he'd managed to draw out that laugh from her: the laugh that Will hadn't heard in over two years: deep and warm and delighted. In all their years together, even in Sherwood, he'd never been able to make her laugh – _really_ laugh like that. He knew he was thinking like a petulant child, but a child was exactly how Allan made him feel sometimes, as though he had some secret joke with Djaq that Will simply couldn't comprehend.

He sighed, pressing the base of his palms into his tired eyes. He needed a walk to clear his head – a long walk in the quiet of the palace gardens.

* * *

Allan woke up slowly, drifting from sleep to consciousness like a swimmer emerging from the bottom of a deep, still lake. The soft pillows and twisted sheets left him disoriented for a moment, until he remembered…walking through the streets at night…the heat and light of the party…the crowd…Djaq's face…the journey through the dark halls…the woman…

He smiled in the darkness and reached out hopefully, but only felt the flat surface of the mattress under his palm. The bed was large, but no amount of shuffling about could find her. Raising himself up on one elbow, he looked around to discover that he was the only one in the bed. Of her there was no trace. He lay back down again. Ah well.

He cast his mind back over the evening, and it inevitably fixed upon Will and Djaq. Their impending marriage. Their happiness. He took a deep breath, still trying to sort out how exactly he felt about this latest development. He should be happy for them…he _was_ happy for them…but he certainly wasn't happy for himself. It wasn't as though he'd really hoped he could have jumped back into their old friendship as though the past two years – and a greater part of the third – had never happened, but he'd wanted the chance to explain himself, to find a way to be a part of their lives again. For them to accept him and for the three of them to regain some semblance of the way things had once been. To attain some measure of peace in their presence. Despite his wild imaginings, he'd been hopeful that this at least could be achieved.

But now…it was as if a door had been slammed in his face, and he found himself facing something far worse than awkwardness or suspicion or unrequited feelings. Simple indifference was a far larger barrier than any of that. They had each other. Why would they care about him anymore?

He rolled onto his stomach and punched the pillow in frustration. He'd tried to be a good man and it had gotten him nowhere. He was as poor a man as he had been on the day he'd first met Robin Hood. He had taken the hard road to virtue and the easy road to hell, turned around halfway and made a detour, gotten slightly lost on the way back again, and found himself right back where he'd started.

But he'd managed to make his long and weary way back to Will and Djaq, and they were already walking away from him, having won fortune and glory…and each other. At this, his dream of the night before suddenly returned to him, and he recalled the vision of Will walking away. But Djaq had stayed…_she_ could be counted upon to listen. He wanted his question answered, the one he'd carried for years, the one he'd kept for her. He'd have to get her alone, if only for a few seconds, then he'd know.

He sighed and flopped over onto his back again. Despite his bedfellow's disappearance, he would have entirely comfortable had he not also been extremely thirsty. It was as though he'd been wandering for days in the desert.

He heaved himself out of bed and reached for his clothes, knowing that it would be a challenge indeed to find a water pitcher in a house the size of Sherwood. But he'd never been this thirsty before – he'd die if he didn't get something to drink soon. In his bare feet he crept across the floor, feeling suddenly groggy and light-headed. He opened the door, letting the torchlight from the hallway spill into the room, and glanced around, checking to make sure she wasn't hiding in a corner somewhere. No – whoever she was, she was long gone.

His throat called out for water, distracting him from the mystery, and he padded into the corridor. If he could find his way back to the ballroom he might find a drink – if not, he could go to the fountains outside, remembering the burbling water gushing up from the ground. _Now,_ his parched throat demanded, and he hurried out into the cool air and deep shadows of the palace. He twitched uncomfortably at the sharpness of the air against the sweat drying on his body, and leaned for a moment against the wall as a wave of dizziness passed over him. What was wrong with him? His blood was pounding through his body, making him want to run and leap, and yet another part of him wanted to crawl back to bed and sleep for a week. His wiped his forehead, slick with sweat, every part of him crying out for water….water…

The blood-curdling scream cut through the air like the cold stab of a knife. It was close by – very close, and after a moment of indecision he head toward it. It had been a woman's scream. The tiny voice of his instinct was screaming at him to flee, but a strange sort of thoughtlessness had taken him over and propelled him forward. Someone was in trouble…

_Djaq?_

He stumbled around the next corner and into a corridor. One wall was composed of a series of tall pillars, the arches between them leading out onto a terrace and the night beyond. He could hear the sound of water gushing outside, and the coolness of the night flooded through him like a stream. Already he could hear doors slamming and footsteps rushing toward him…though they seemed to come from very far away, echoing in his head like shouts from afar.

Lying on the ground before him was a man, but through his hazy vision Allan could only pick out dark hair and fancy clothes. Slowly he began to move closer, details gradually focusing as he edged around in the attempt to find the man's face. Blood was oozing thickly from the back of his head; a flask lay near his hand, water dripping from its spout. The dark hand was that of a Saracen's. He was close enough now to see who it was, to look down at the unnaturally still features drawn up slightly in what looked like the semblance of a smile. He was dead, and yet…peaceful.

He heard the arrival of other people gush toward the hallway like a wave upon the sand, but didn't he look up, unable to tear his eyes from the visage of death lying in front of him. He felt a brief hand upon his back, and then movement at his side. A low chorus of moans and cries swelled up, growing louder as more people arrived, but finally it was a familiar voice that brought him back to himself.

"Allan?"

Djaq was looking at him from the other side of the body, and he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't register the fact that she was in her night-gown. He shook his head at her helplessly, and watched as Will approached, then left her side in order to kneel down beside the body.

"He's dead. A head wound."

He could feel the jostle of bodies behind him as someone pushed through, and watched as Ameer moved into the empty space left around the corpse, looking down at his nephew in shock. He dropped heavily to his knees and pressed his fingers down on the tiles. Allan was close enough to hear him mutter: "Alevi…" For a moment he was still, and then he looked up, his black eyes blazing like hot coals, yelling in Arabic.

Allan could only stand in silence, hearing the commotion around him without feeling a part of it, sensing only the bite of the cold tiles under his bare feet and the illogical idea that somehow this was all his fault. There was something to be said, something he could _do_, but nothing came to mind, not even the effort it would take to defend himself. Somehow he always ended up here: in the midst of a situation he couldn't get himself out of. Maybe this one would be the one that ended him.

* * *

Will had heard the scream from the gardens, and rushed toward the light that lay beyond the row of archways. By the time he'd run across the lawns and up the stairs to the terrace, the hallway was already packed with a horrified crowd. Shouldering through them, he'd laid a brief hand on Allan's back, about to ask what he'd done this time, when he noticed both Djaq and the body.

Alevi.

He'd struggled to hold back the crowd, to let Djaq take a closer look and hopefully get some idea of what exactly had happened. Then Ameer had arrived.

"Who did this?" he demanded. "How did this _happen_?"

Everybody waited for somebody else to say something. After moment stretched out into prolonged moment, Djaq finally spoke up.

"No one knows what happened," Djaq said, sympathy filling her voice, even for a man she despised. "We heard – we all heard a woman scream. When we arrived…"

The situation was quickly getting out of control. Ameer was demanding answers, servants, justice and wine at the top of his lungs, and a great moaning had arisen among some of the women; mad, high-pitched keening that cut into Allan's eardrums. A few – perhaps family members – were trying to fling themselves forward upon the body, and Will was attempting to hold one back for the sake of Djaq, who was now leaning over the body and examining it intently.

It was not until an authoritative voice cut through the clamour and silenced everyone but the grieving women that he felt some semblance of order returning. Prince Malik had arrived with a retinue of guards, regal even in his night-robe, and ordering calm even as the peace he'd worked so hard for lay dead on the ground.

In a voice that would not be countered Malik ordered the women to be escorted back to their quarters and for every one else who had rushed to the scene to return to their rooms and lock their doors behind them. In a few moments the hallway had been emptied of all save for Will and Djaq, Malik and a black-clad servant, Ameer and his dead nephew, and Allan, who seemed to be swaying slightly on his feet.

Will felt liked Allan looked: pale, sweaty, and more than a little sick. Djaq was still crouched next to Alevi, examining his head carefully.

"What weapon do you think made these wounds?" Ameer asked Djaq gruffly, clearly in agony over having to seek a woman's advice. Djaq carefully lifted a few strands of hair from the back of Alevi's skull, peering closer.

"Something blunt, but with an edge…it looks like a…" she faulted suddenly. "I can't tell."

Will watched as she sat back on her heels, looking at Alevi with a stricken expression on her face. It was that look alone that told Will what kind of weapon had killed their best hope for peace.

"But wait," she muttered, leaning in again. "There's something wrong…."

"What's wrong?" snapped Ameer.

"The blood flow."

"What about it?"

"There isn't any. The head wound…it's deep, but there's not enough blood for this wound to have caused his death. It was made _after_ he died."

"Nonsense! Why would anyone bludgeon a corpse?"

Her temper flared up.

"I don't know _sir_," she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. "A more pressing question would be _who_ would bludgeon a corpse."

"Perhaps someone came in from the gardens," Malik said, gazing out into the night. "Perhaps someone saw him from out there and rushed in to steal his…never mind."

Alevi was just as covered in glistening jewels as he had been at the party.

"He was murdered!" Ameer huffed. "He was murdered by somebody who didn't want him to sign the treaty! I want my physicians called here – I want them to tell me everything there is to know about what happened. You!"

He thrust one podgy finger in Allan's direction.

"You said that you found him! Did you pass anyone on the way here?"

Allan shook his head wordlessly, and realising that something was wrong with him, Djaq suddenly got to her feet and went to him.

"Are you alright?" she asked in English, and when he didn't answer she took his arm and looked at Will in concern. "I think he's in shock."

"Allan?" Will asked. His blue eyes were the only colour in his white face.

"Water," he managed to croak. The only water in sight was the flask on the floor, and no one was prepared to offer him _that_.

"I'll take him to your room," Djaq muttered to Will after a few moments casting her eyes desperately between the sick man and the dead one, clearly torn between which one held the greater priority. "Find out where they take Alevi, then come and find me."

She grasped Allan's arm and ushered him away. Allan stumbled, his eyes still glazed over, but didn't resist her direction. Will turned back, still feeling numb. Alevi was dead. It couldn't be real.

"The palace will be in an uproar tomorrow," Malik said, his palm pressed against his forehead. "By Allah, what do we _do_?"

"My nephew needs to be taken to a cool room," Ameer said. "I want answers before the rest of the family is notified. If they haven't been already. There were enough women present to ensure the whole palace already knows."

"It looks as though the treaty-signing will have to be postponed," Will said flatly, to the collection of grim and defeated faces. Slowly Malik and his servant rearranged Alevi's body under Ameer's supervision, hefted them in their arms and began to shuffle away. Before following, Will cast one last glance at the empty hall. Alevi's outer coat and scarf were left on the floor – they had been tucked under Alevi's arm and fallen from the body as it had been lifted. The water flask had left a large puddle on the floor.

The night outside was quiet when it should have been loud with the latest declaration of war.

* * *

_Next week: there is suspicion, accusation, paranoia, and the power-trio put on their (figurative) detective hats._

_As always, reviews/comments very much appreciated._


	10. The Servant in Black

**Chapter Nine: The Servant in Black**

He leaned heavily on Djaq's frame as she ushered him through the darkened corridors, the sounds of murmuring and weeping leaking from underneath every door as news of the murder made its inevitable round. He was unbearably hot…he needed to get something to drink or he'd surely collapse. Finally though, a door opened into blissful coolness and he was steered into darkness and sat down upon the end of an unmade bed.

"Water…" he managed, and closed his eyes as he heard Djaq move across the room, and the sound of water pouring into a mug. A moment later she'd pressed it into his hand, and he drunk deeply.

"More," was all he could say afterwards, and she refilled the cup once, twice, three more times, standing in front of him and watching silently as he chugged down the contents. Finally he stopped, panting, and felt her hand place itself upon his cheek. Before he knew what he was doing, he pressed the hand closer to him with one of his own, trying to transfer its coolness to his flushed face.

He had to tell her, to ask her _now_, before it was too late, before he was hung for a murder he didn't commit. The question was on the tip of his tongue, only he couldn't speak properly, and random words were dripping from his mouth like raindrops:

"If I…would you…"

Before any degree of sense could be made from this gibberish, she raised his face with both hands, and for a surreal moment he thought she was going to kiss him. But she was looking into his eyes, gently pulling up his eyelids in order to peer into their blueness.

"Your eyes are glassy," she told him, shaking her head in despair. "How much have you been drinking? Saracen wine is more potent than what you're used to."

"Djaq-" he muttered, trying to force the words out. By their own volition, his clumsy arms had already wrapped themselves around her waist, trying to tug her down toward him. Alarm suddenly flared up in her eyes like a startled bird, and she disentangled herself just in time. A moment later Will burst through the door.

"Are you alright?" he demanded of her.

"Where's your hatchet?" she demanded back.

Grim realisation filled his eyes, and he rushed over to a small chest against the wall, kneeled before it, and flung it open. For a few minutes Djaq and Allan watched as he scrabbled about, flinging aside familiar old Sherwood clothes and other bits and pieces. Finally he stopped, his arms braced on the sides of the open chest, and hung his head.

"It's gone," he said quietly, without even turning around.

"Wh-huh?" Allan managed, but now Will and Djaq were looking at each other in a kind of frantic despair that was frightening to behold. Will leapt to his feet and moved to lock the door while Djaq began pacing the floor.

"Someone must have gotten in during the party," Will said, securing the door latch and then turning to grasp Djaq by her arms. "Taken it from my chest and used it to kill Alevi."

Djaq looked at him in horror. "Someone is trying to frame you. We have to leave this place. Right now."

"Djaq-"

"_No!_ Do not argue with me. Let us get our things and just leave. We could be at Bassam's house in two days time, and then-"

"Djaq, if I go now I may as well be proclaiming my own guilt. We need to slow down and think this out."

Allan watched all this from the bed, swaying slightly. He was trying to maintain some measure of control over his body, despite the heavy pounding of his heartbeat echoing about in his head. There was something vitally important he needed to say:

"I…I…"

They both glanced up at him, almost surprised to see that he was even there.

"I didn't do it."

There was a stunned silence from Will. Then: "What's wrong with him?"

"I think he's drunk," Djaq answered, and he heard Will snort derisively. Reaching out blindly, Allan's fingers fastened upon the ewer that Djaq had used to fill his mug, and he poured himself another drink. He was desperate to get rid of this clogged-up feeling. He didn't _feel_ drunk, just sick, and he wanted to keep up with the conversation that was flitting back and forth before him. There was something he'd seen…something that didn't make sense, and if he could only clear his mind he could fix upon what it was.

Will had clenched his fists; Djaq was pulling restlessly at her hair. Allan wanted to comfort them.

"Maybe it was just an accident," he croaked. "Maybe 'e tripped and fell. Backwards. Onto a hatchet. That disappeared afterwards."

Will rolled his eyes, but Djaq at least had the grace to answer him.

"It was no accident. This place is an anthill, crawling with games and intrigues. Alevi-al-Dayir was meant to sign one half of a peace treaty tomorrow night, and now someone's stopped that from happening."

"But who would _want_ that?" Will asked, looking impossibly young all of a sudden.

Djaq silently wrapped her arms around his waist. Allan watched as though from a great distance, vaguely wondering if he should remind them that he was still here, but also what would happen between them if he kept quiet.

"We'll go to Prince Malik and explain to him that my hatchet has been taken," Will said. "He's always been sympathetic to us. We'll make him see that Alevi was killed with my _stolen_ hatchet."

"Alevi _wasn't_ killed by a hatchet. I told you that. The wounds came _after_ he died. It must have been an Englishman who did it."

Will started, and let go of her.

"What makes you say that?"

"Only an Englishman would be stupid enough to attack a corpse and not think we would not be able to tell."

Will didn't look particularly convinced by this, and turned to Allan impatiently.

"You were there first. Tell us _exactly_ what happened."

He tried not to groan, the threat of conversation now making him want nothing more than to curl up and sleep off whatever exotic hangover this was. He raised a finger to explain, hoping that the affirmative gesture would focus his thoughts.

"I was asleep," he said. "Then I was thirsty. So I got out of bed-"

"Wait, what bed?" asked Djaq. "Where _were_ you?"

"I don't know. A servant took me to a spare room somewhere. When I woke up I was thirsty, so I got out of bed to find a drink-" he took another swig of the water. "But I heard someone scream. A woman."

Djaq nodded. "So did I."

"Me too," Will added. "From all the way out in the gardens."

"Yeah…I thought it was…so anyway, I got to the corridor and I saw him…lying there."

"Anything else?"

Allan scrunched up his face. There _had_ been something…not something he'd _seen_, just something he'd _noticed_, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what it was.

"I don't think so. I saw that he had a water flask and that it was dripping on the floor. And he'd taken off his coat and scarf. It's getting hot in 'ere. Can we open a window?"

He was feeling better now; things were making more sense. Alevi had been murdered. Will was being blamed. But things didn't make sense because the hatchet wounds had been made after he'd died. By someone who underestimated the intelligence of Saracens. They weren't mucking around in a forest anymore; that had been dangerous enough as it was. These were high political games that were way above his head – way above _all_ their heads. Djaq had the right idea – they should leave while they still had the chance.

"Look – there's no reason for me to want to kill Alevi," Will was saying. "Everyone knows how hard I worked for peace. There's no motive!"

"The very fact that you are English and he was Saracen might be reason enough. And if there is not a reason, whoever did this will invent one. They could say that you and Alevi fought over something. Maybe our marriage. Maybe the treaty. Maybe your loyalty to Robin Hood. They will find something."

She buried her face in his shoulder, and he held her closely. Allan shifted uncomfortably. Watching his scantily-clad friends embrace was not something he wanted to witness. At least, not under these circumstances.

"Hush," Will was telling her. "If the wounds were made after his death, then the worst I can be accused of is bludgeoning a dead man. It may be that they do not look too closely at his injuries. They may not even realise that it _is_ the work of a hatchet. In fact, can _you_ even be sure that it was a hatchet?"

She leaned back and glared at him.

"Alright, alright, it was a hatchet," he said hastily.

She returned to his shoulder.

"I can't believe it," Allan heard her whisper in the quiet. "Alevi is dead. He was always so…alive."

It sounded silly, but Allan knew what she meant, and for the first time he felt a sharp and surprising twinge of grief. He hadn't known Alevi, had barely spoken to him, but the man had made an effort to make him feel welcome. In that brief interlude on the divan, Allan had glimpsed a little of himself in the loud, vain, nervous man.

"It'll be morning soon," Will said. "We should try to…never mind, we'll never get to sleep now."

"I want to go back to the corridor where he was found," Djaq said firmly. "Perhaps there is something that we missed. Then I want a closer look at the body."

"Are you sure?" Will asked. "You don't want to-"

"No. Let us go now. All of us."

* * *

A few minutes later, still feeling queasy, Allan found himself back in the corridor, looking at the scene of a few hours ago, sans one dead body and a hysterical crowd. The water flask was still there, its contents emptied all over the tiles, the finely embroidered jacket and scarf lying forgotten, the tranquil night beyond the archways as still and calm as ever.

Hesitantly Djaq knelt down beside the puddle, wet her fingers and brushed her lips with them.

"It's just water," she told the men, and together the three moved on to the discarded clothes.

"These are definitely the clothes he was wearing at the party," Djaq said, picking them up from the floor. "Do you two notice anything odd?"

"What do you mean?" Will asked, coming to stand next to her.

"Nothing…I was just wondering why he would take them off. It's not a very warm night."

Allan took his place at her other side, looking down at the garments, limp and a little pathetic-looking without their flamboyant owner. He leaned in to peer closer at the gold embroidery, and then jumped back as his nose was assailed by a faint but familiar scent.

"'Ang on!" he cried, taking the jacket from Djaq's hands, pressing it to his face, and taking a deep breath of the collar.

"What is it?" Will asked.

He shook his head, concentrating. He couldn't be sure. After all, he knew from the oil that the land-lord had given him that the men in this country also perfumed themselves. But there, underneath the pungent smell of sweat and fabric, was the scent of a woman. Spices, musk, flowers, heat…it was unmistakable.

"A woman was with him," he said with certainty.

"How do you know?" Will asked.

"Smell it," he said. "It smells like Dj…like a Saracen woman."

Obediently, the two bowed their heads toward the collar and breathed in.

"Perhaps…" Djaq said slowly.

"I'm sure of it." Having been at extremely close quarters not too long ago with one such woman, Allan was certain.

"Well…what woman?" Will said. "Is it even important? Alevi always had women from the harem crowded around him."

"Oh…right," Allan took back the jacket and stared down at it glumly. He had hoped that his observation would have impressed them.

But now Will had a focused, faraway look on her face. "We all heard the scream…" she said slowly. "The scream of a woman…but was she screaming because she saw the murder, or screaming because she found the body?"

"Because she found the body," Djaq said firmly. "Whoever she was."

Will glanced at Allan uneasily. He didn't look entirely convinced.

"I guess that depends on how quickly people got here…" he said, and turned to Allan for clarification.

"I, um…it's hard to say. I wasn't feeling…meself." He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration and opened them again. Djaq's words were echoing in his mind.

_Whoever she was…_

There was something there, in that comment that was important. But he couldn't grasp it, and was now feeling mildly distracted by the sight of Will gently playing with the strands of Djaq's hair.

"But Djaq, if my hatchet wasn't the murder weapon, then what killed him?" he was asking. "There was no other mark on him, was there?"

"I didn't get a good enough chance to look at him. But no, from what I could see, there was nothing else. That means…"

"Poison," they all said together; Will angrily, Djaq calmly and Allan grimly.

"But then how long was it, do you suppose, between Alevi's death and whoever it was using the hatchet?" she wondered.

The men were silent, Will perhaps because he was not yet totally convinced as to Djaq's conviction, and Allan because something else was welling up in his mind. Something that didn't make sense.

"Lemme think…" he muttered, and then spoke out, carefully articulating each word as the puzzle unravelled in his mind. "Why poison 'im and _then_ use a hatchet on the back of 'is 'ead?"

"Maybe to make sure the job was done," Will said.

"No, no…if this guy, whoever 'e is, wants to pin the murder on you, and goes to all the trouble of getting your hatchet out of your room…why not just bash Alevi on the back of the 'ead and have done with it? Why muck around with poison at all?"

The two of them were quiet, staring at him intently. He went on, trying to answer his own question, dredging up a lifetime of underhanded tactics and sneaky dealings that had gone horribly wrong.

"Maybe…maybe there was a plan. And the plan went wrong."

Djaq nodded thoughtfully.

"It all depends, I suppose, on whether the culprit is Saracen or English. That is the problem. A Saracen would use poison to dispose of an enemy. It is…neat. An Englishman would be more likely to use a hatchet. It leaves nothing to chance."

"But you're saying that Alevi was killed by poison and then…what? A hatchet for good measure? To frame me? I thought you said a Saracen would know better than that."

Djaq shook her head in despair, and Allan ventured further.

"Maybe there's two lots of things goin' on here. We just can't see what it is."

"I need to see the body again," she said, and immediately turned around and strode off down the corridor. Allan and Will cast weary looks at each other, and set off behind her.

* * *

"What do you _mean_ I cannot go in?" she cried.

Will stood next to her, aware of the acute embarrassment of the guard who was looking in every conceivable direction save at the nightgown-clad, unveiled Saracen woman standing directly in front of him with her hands on her hips.

"The family is inside," he said to the ceiling. "They don't want to be disturbed."

Will quietly translated this to Allan, standing a little behind the two of them, as Djaq toned down her outrage and changed her tactics.

"I understand," she said in a much more reasonable tone. "But there is something very important concerning Lord Alevi that I need to tell them. Something about how he died that-"

She stopped suddenly as the door behind the guard opened. The cold from what was apparently a cooling room preceded a Saracen dressed in black, the cries and wails of grief from within growing louder as the door opened, and then muffled again as he shut it behind him. The man was a servant judging from his downcast eyes, but well-dressed, and therefore an important one.

"Excuse me," Djaq began imperiously, but then shrank back under the cold, dark look that the man fixed on her. Will felt her self-consciousness flood through her as though the emotion was his own, seeing her flush red and cross her arms protectively across her night-gown. In all the excitement, she had forgotten she was no longer among those that would tolerate such behaviour from a woman. Will wanted to put his arm around her, but hesitated. In these circumstances, perhaps that would just make it worse.

"The al-Dayir family do not wish to be disturbed," the man said in a deep, sonorous voice.

"I – I understand, but you see – Alevi's death-"

"Was caused by a blow to the head by a weapon that was very much like a small axe," the man cut in smoothly. "Yes, the family is aware of that."

His eyes left her and shifted to Will, who drew himself up to his full height and addressed the man as calmly as he could, pushing down the anger that the man's insinuating tone had roused in him.

"Alevi was not killed by a hatchet."

The man's eyebrows raised. "You are sure of this? Usually when a man is found dead and bleeding from head wounds, it is a clear indicator of his cause of death. The palace physician is confident enough."

"But that is just _it_," Djaq blurted, her shame cast aside by her frustration. "He was poisoned. The hatchet wounds were made _after_ his death!"

"Poison? How do you know?" His voice was thick with scepticism and crawling with suspicion.

She flushed again.

"If I could _examine_ the body…"

"You? You want to _examine_ the body?"

He made it sound as though he she were suggesting something obscene, and she blinked in shock. Without another word she marched down the corridor and disappeared into a nearby room. Will watched her go, baffled as to what she was doing, and then turned to Allan. He was gazing at the servant in quiet concentration. Clearing his throat, Will tried again.

"We would very much like to speak to the family when they emerge…" he trailed off. The shrieks of mourning that had been going on throughout their discourse had reached a crescendo. The guard shifted uncomfortably. The servant stared coolly back at Will. Allan continued to stare at the man as though he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open. "…we think there's been a misunderstanding."

"That's an interesting way to describe a murder."

"Look, it's important we see the family before-"

A door banged shut down the corridor, and Djaq stormed back, her gown billowing like black wings at her sides. Marching up to the servant she thrust a folded piece of parchment under his nose.

"You are a manservant to the al-Dayir family," she told him, speaking with the full authority of a noblewoman to her inferior. "Therefore you will deliver this to them at the earliest possible opportunity. There is information in it that is of utmost importance concerning their kinsman's death."

The servant glanced at it distainfully, but clearly knew when his opinions ended and his obligations began. He slid two fingers either side of the message and eased it out of Djaq's grasp.

"I'll see it done, _milady_," he said, the final word soaked in unmistakable mockery.

Will reached out, grabbed her hand and pulled her away before she punched him. Or before _he_ did. Allan trailed along in their wake, muttering to himself. "That man…I've seen 'im before."

* * *

The manservant watched them go, disgust warping his clean-shaven face like a mask. He pulled at the collar of his vest, eager to be out of the dark, constricting clothes and back into his own.

A few minutes later, he could safely yank the vest over his head and replace it with his own shirt as his employer perused the contents of Lady Safiyah's letter.

"How does a _woman_ notice such a thing?" he growled, the letter clenched in his hands. "It took a fortune to keep the physician's mouth shut about it!" A splattering of curses followed, to which the impostor-manservant listened with interest. "I _knew_ the hatchet was a mistake, but he didn't listen to me. Idiot!"

Tearing the paper up and casting it aside, he glared angrily into the darkness. "Now he wants to meddle _futher_!"

"Weren't they his plans to start with?" his temporary servant asked sardonically.

"_Yes_," was the bitter reply. "But only Allah knows why he decided to change them on the eve of their instigation!"

The servant was quiet, waiting patiently for orders. He pricked his ears up at the sound of a clinking pouch, one that was pulled from his employer's pocket and dropped into his open palm.

"I except you know about the change in hostage?"

He nodded.

"Very well then. You know what to do next."

* * *

_So things aren't really going all that well for our favourite carpenter, physician and thief...and I'm afraid they have to get worse before they get better. Next chapter: Allan hatches a scheme, Will gets into a fight and a hostage is taken._


	11. A Rumour in the Dark

_Well, I have a monster-length chapter for you this week, so I hope you enjoy! It is a little darker - and I'm afraid it's only going to get darker - but fear not, there will be light at the end of the tunnel. Eventually. Maybe..._

* * *

**Chapter 10: A Rumour in the Dark**

Despite the rising heat, the morning seemed as bleak and pale as Will's expression. Likewise, Djaq's countenance was closed and pinched. But Allan's thoughts were fixed upon a different face altogether. He was still wracking his memory over the servant dressed in black. He knew he had seen him somewhere before. That expression of mockery and distaste that he'd thrown at Djaq…he had seen him give that look to someone else, and surprisingly enough, it had not been _him_.

He was feeling better now. Whatever odd illness had possessed him had clearly done its business and cleared off to go bother someone else. He could watch with a clear head as more servants began to flood the halls of the palace, their movements light and nervous, giving the impression of small black birds. It also helped that he had come to a decision. He had reached it the moment he had stumbled across poor Alevi, but hadn't been able to realise it with any reasonable clarity until approximately two seconds ago.

He was leaving. He had no other choice. Knee-deep in a dead body, a suspicious crowd and a foreign country, there was no other sensible course of action. He was already too tangled up in this, and his instincts were screaming at him to flee.

It was just a matter of convincing Will and Djaq that it was the right thing for them all to do. It would be useless to make them believe that they were in too deep – that whoever had set this all up had clearly planned everything out well in advance. Their chances in finding whoever it was were slim, but these two wouldn't buy that for a moment. Their idiotic tendency to do the honourable thing would surely get them killed this time around. And he hadn't come all this way only to see them strung up by a rope or beheaded by a scimitar, or whatever it was that they did to execute criminals in this country. It was up to him to get them out of here, and they could thank him later.

And he already had a plan. He needed to play on their weakness for each other. If he could make both of them believe that the other was in grave danger – well, that would be far more effective than trying to convince them that they were in over their heads.

As the three of them passed through a small door and into a courtyard that contained a rockery garden and a small fountain, Allan felt an odd stir of chivalry in him – that he could use his gifts of deception for their sakes; not because he was being ordered to by either Robin or Guy, but because it was the right thing to do.

Water trickled from a statue's urn and into a white basin, and Allan gratefully tipped his head under it, washing away the final vestiges of sleep, only to turn and see Will and Djaq watching him.

"What? Ain't that what they're for?"

Will opened his mouth – probably for some snotty reply, Allan guessed – but Djaq intervened quickly.

"We need to figure out what to do next. The letter should reach Alevi's family, but we need to inform Prince Malik as well. We need to let people know that Will is being framed."

"The prince is probably with the family right now," Will told her. "He'll try to find _us_ later though, especially considering what the physician told him."

They stood in the courtyard quietly for a moment, collecting their thoughts. Allan readied himself to drop the first hint that the best course of action would be to run and not look back, when a quick gesture from Djaq silenced him. Arabic voices were talking in the corridor; they could hear the speakers clearly through the half-open door. Judging by the expressions on Will and Djaq's faces, what was being said was not to their liking.

"What'd they say?" he asked after the voices faded away. For a moment neither answered, then Djaq slowly raised her head to look at him.

"They were two wives of noblemen staying in the palace. They know about Alevi's death and all about the hatchet. They were talking about how they think Will was acting under Sir Percy's orders."

"That got around quickly," he commented. "Seems gossip moves just as quickly this side of the pond as it does in Merry Old England."

"We need to get to Sir Percy," Will said urgently. "Maybe he can help. If we can get him and Malik on our side…"

Djaq picked up on his train of thought. "….then it'll be harder for whoever's doing this to discredit you. And Percy's house has been decreed neutral territory. If he grants you sanctuary there…well," she paused uncomfortably. "If worst came to worse, you'd be safe there."

"That sounds like a good plan then," Allan said. "We should go soon before anyone tries to stop us."

"What do you mean?" Will asked in alarm.

"I just mean, if you're a suspect, then they might try to prevent you from leaving. We should just be careful is all."

There was a certain amount of satisfaction to be had in the uneasy glance that Will and Djaq shared with each other. In all the confusion, this possibility clearly hadn't occurred to them.

They turned to leave, missing the obvious.

"Er, Djaq?" Allan reminded her. "Maybe you should get dressed first."

"Oh…yes," she ran her hands absentmindedly down her nightgown. "Quickly then, before anyone else sees me."

* * *

A few minutes later the men were standing outside her bedroom door, having run a gauntlet of side-long glances from the servants they passed. As the door closed behind her, inevitable awkwardness fell between the two men, and Will shuffled impatiently as Allan noted with interest that the door was certainly _not_ the one that had led him into Will's room the night before.

So many concerns were swirling through Will's mind like a whirlwind, and Allan's presence only agitated him further. Out of all the people who could have found Alevi dead, it would just _have_ to be Allan, stumbling through the corridors like a drunkard. The incident itself and Allan's usual ability to cause trouble had coalesced in Will's mind in such a way that it was difficult to not lay full responsibility for this mess at Allan's feet. He took a deep breath, trying to soothe the first tendrils of red-hot anger that were beginning to stir within him.

"So…who do you think it was?" Allan asked.

Will's hands curled up into fists.

"I don't know. Someone who doesn't care about all we've worked for," he muttered darkly to himself.

Allan started. He'd forgotten the youth's righteousness. It would be hard to break through that kind of stubbornness.

"Still – have to think of Djaq though, eh?"

"What do you mean?"

Allan glanced at the bedroom door as though he didn't want its inhabitant to hear.

"I'm just sayin'. You know what she's like when she gets frustrated. She was marchin' around a palace today in her _night gown_ and didn't even notice! I know enough about these people to know that _that_ won't go down well. I just…well. I'm sure you don't want her to get into the trouble that _you're_ in. Maybe when we get to Percy's you should both stay there. Or at least-"

"Will!"

The two of them turned to see a Saracen man hurry toward them.

"I have been searching for you all over the palace!"

It was Khalid, looking rather dishevelled. He approached swiftly, running a hand through his hair.

"Is it true? Alevi is…"

Will nodded.

"He's dead. He was poisoned."

Khalid swore quietly under his breath, then looked up with confusion in his eyes.

"Poison, you say? But I heard that-"

"Someone desecrated the body after he died."

Khalid was silent for a moment, taking this in.

"And no one knows who is responsible?"

"We're trying to find that out."

"Then there is something I must tell you. I think I know who did it."

Will leaned in closer, his eyes wide. "Go on."

"Last night at the party, I was talking to some guests, when I saw what I thought was a familiar face in the shadows. However, the man I saw…I thought it couldn't possibly be…"

Will recalled his run-in with Khalid last night, in which the man had uncharacteristically paused for only a brief greeting before hurrying away. He had thought it odd at the time, but forgotten about it until now. "Who was it?"

"Nearly four years ago, when I came to England in search of Safiyah, I had a manservant with me by the name of Nasir. He was a sly and subtle man, but clever and hard-working enough. And yet while he was in my employ, strange things would happen. Little things, but strange. A ring or earring would go missing, an unsavoury-looking fellow would be seen leaving his chambers at odd hours, other servants would leave my service without explanation. It was not hard to believe that Nasir was the root of all this trouble, but I had no proof that justified getting rid of him.

"But when I married, Rabeea confided in me that she did not like Nasir. He made her feel uneasy, and when several items of jewellery went missing from her room, I dismissed him. I have not seen him since. Until last night, when I saw a man in the palace who – if it was not Nasir himself – was surely his identical twin."

Will nodded gravely. "And?"

"I searched for him in the crowd, but he was nowhere to be found. I didn't give it a second thought until this morning, when I heard what happened to Alevi."

Will nodded, a faint gleam of possibility welling up in his eyes. "Have you told Prince Malik this?"

"No, not yet."

"Then please, find him and tell him now. It could be important. Can you also tell him that Djaq and I have information concerning Alevi's death? We think whoever is responsible has tried to frame me."

Khalid shot him a quizzical look and then nodded. "Very well. I shall see you shortly."

As the Saracen hurried away, Will briefly translated the gist of the conversation to a fidgety Allan. Blue eyes flashed at him.

"I don't suppose it's occurred to you that _he_ could be involved?" Allan asked.

"What? What do you mean?"

"You're too trusting Will," Allan told him in a low, cold voice. "I'd've thought you would have learnt that lesson by now. Anyone in this palace could have killed Alevi. That guy was once _betrothed_ to Djaq. It can't be very nice for him knowing that you two are about to be hitched. That means 'e's got a reason to see you go down for a murder you didn't commit. 'E was in the palace all night, 'e could have easily swiped yer axe. How do you know all that stuff about Nas-whatever isn't just a distraction? Now 'e'll have you running around in circles over a guy that probably doesn't even exist!"

The last remnant of colour had drained from Will's face.

"Khalid is married – he's _happy_. He spoke on our behalf to the Sultan-"

"You don't seem to realise what you're up against here, mate. _Murder_. Not the way Guy of Giz would kill a man cos 'e's in the way, but cold, logical, _planned_ murder. You need to get your mind sorted before something happens to Djaq."

Will's face now flushed a furious red, and he opened his mouth to speak when the door opened. Djaq emerged in a dark flowing dress, her face hidden demurely away behind a veil, though her eyes still glittered.

"Ready," she said briskly. "Let's go."

"Keep sharp eye out though," he replied, his eyes fixed on Will. "You two never know who could be watching."

Will was silent as they all fell into step. In the time it had taken them to walk the length of the hall, he'd come to his own decision concerning Allan. He'd just have to wait until Djaq wasn't around before sharing it.

* * *

Will marched ahead through the dusty streets, his stride more confident than the light in his eyes. There ahead was the familiar sight of Percy's house, yet unlike last time, in which there were young men lounging about in half-uniform, the front door was guarded four crusaders in full armour, with more faces peering out from upstairs windows. The three moved through the gate and up the path, Will in the lead. Just before they passed the threshold, Allan felt Djaq's hand touch his arm briefly.

"When we are in there, look around carefully," she said quietly. "I want your opinion on the place and how easy it would be to break in or out…if the need should arise."

He nodded without looking at her, his eyes on the crusaders they had to pass to get to the front door.

* * *

Sir Percy Lean was not looking his best. His face was blotchy, his jowls were quivering and his rather beady eyes darted around the room.

"Ah, Will my boy," he said with some degree of joviality, one that disappeared entirely when he saw Djaq behind him. "And Lady Safiyah," he added in a distinctly less welcoming tone. Allan was ignored completely.

"Are you…is everything…what news from the palace?"

Will got straight to the point.

"I'm sure you've heard by now that Alevi was found dead last night – murdered. My hatchet was stolen from my room yesterday and used to inflict wounds in the dead man's head. Someone is trying to frame me for his murder and disrupt the peace process."

"Someone has _succeeded_ in framing Will and disrupting the peace process," Djaq corrected firmly.

Allan looked Sir Percy up and down, from the stricken face to the white and hairy bare feet sticking out from beneath the hem of his kaftan, and knew he didn't like what he saw. The man was flustered and veering close to panic, based on the way his hands twitched and his tongue flicked across his lips.

"And er – what is it you actually _want_ here?" he asked nervously.

"We came to you for _help_," Djaq said. "You are King Richard's envoy here. You must return to the palace and publicly declare and support Will's innocence."

"Ah, well – of course, of course, we all _know_ you're innocent."

This was not really an answer, and so Djaq pressed further.

"This household is on English soil for the duration of your stay. If you grant Will immunity here, then he cannot be arrested."

"Yes…well…" A few muttered words followed, including "things are different", "kinsmen are murdered" and "volatile people".

Djaq bristled, and shrugged off the hand that Will had put on her shoulder.

"If you granted Will sanctuary under the terms of Salah al-Din's agreement then my people would not touch him here. I would make sure of that."

She folded her arms, and Percy couldn't contain a snort.

"_You?_ But you're a…"

The word had been stifled, but Djaq was nonetheless trembling with anger. Allan could see it from where he stood. As they'd been speaking, he had been casting his eyes around, carefully considering the wide windows and casting a speculative eye up the narrow staircase.

"Perhaps _you_ could tell me what's been happening," Percy said, trying to assert himself and take back control of the situation. "I left the palace early this morning – I didn't learn much about the situation and my servant hasn't returned back with news yet." Will took a breath, reigning in his temper.

"While you were…_sleeping_, the entire west wing of the palace heard a scream. Allan here was the first on the scene and he found Alevi's body. I arrived from the gardens soon after, and by that time a crowd had gathered."

Percy gazed sharply at Allan.

"You all heard a scream, but none of you saw anything?"

"Alevi was dead when we got there," Will said. "He must have been poisoned because killer was long gone by the time we got there."

Percy was still staring at Allan, and something the pompous Englishman had said was resonating in Allan's head.

_None of you saw anything….none of you saw anything…_

"Allan doesn't know anything," Djaq's sharp clear voice broke Percy's suspicious gaze. "He only arrived yesterday."

Was it Allan's imagination, or did Will become even _more_ agitated at this declaration?

"But _you_ were sleeping in the palace for the past three nights," Djaq said. "Not far from where Alevi was found. Did you hear anything?"

"Me? No, no. I was sound asleep."

A word dropped unbidden into Allan's mind, and he spoke it aloud without thought:

"Alone?"

Percy jumped, and fixed his eyes on Allan once more.

"As a matter of fact, _no_. I had company. I didn't get her name, but I'd recognise her if I saw her again, and she'll vouch for the fact that I was _indisposed_ all last night. She's probably still in the harem somewhere." He cleared his throat, not sure whether to be embarrassed or smug, but settling on vaguely defensive at the look in Will and Djaq's eyes.

"There is very little I can do for you," he snapped, now sufficiently insulted and scared enough to throw all attempts at pleasantry to the wind. "I have a household full of England's soldiers to lead, and a group of men who are suddenly once again in unfriendly territory. I plan to prepare for a siege in case these bloodthirsty people decide once more to go back on their word."

He turned to Will, his shoulder cutting Djaq out of the conversation.

"You are knighted, but you are not under my command. If you stay here, I will put you under the protection of this household. But you'll be a soldier expected to obey my orders, and not permitted to leave. If you go, you will not be allowed entrance back in. And _she_ will have to go."

He jerked his head in Djaq's direction.

Will turned and left the house without another word.

* * *

"He shouldn'ta done that," Allan said as they jogged to catch up to Will, striding off his anger several feet in front of him. "The guy may be a jackass, but at least Will would have been safe in 'is house. And if not, he could have snuck out of that place far easier than he can at the palace. I assume that's why you told me to scope the place out."

Djaq quickened her pace.

"Hateful old man," she spat as they finally caught up with Will in the street. "Pompous, cowardly fool!"

The venomous adjectives went on for a while, until she finally stopped for breath.

"Is he a suspect?" Allan asked. "He seemed pretty jumpy, and he was in the palace when it 'appened."

"But why though?" Djaq said. "Disrupting the peace treaty only puts _him_ in danger."

"He said he was with a woman…" Will said. "That story could be easily confirmed _if_ he can recognise her." He gave a little snort of disgust. "He did not even know her name."

Allan pushed down a twist of guilt as Djaq laughed derisively.

"_Company_," she spat. "Idiotic fool."

"'ey," Allan said, compelled to speak up. "An old guy like that…if he can still manage to rope 'em in, he must be doing something right."

It was a feeble attempt at humour that another of Djaq's withering looks cut short.

"His bedfellow was no doubt a pillow-talker," she said, casting a knowing glance at Will.

"A – a what?"

"A woman sent into the beds of guests in order to obtain state secrets. The harem is full of them, and once the deed is done they report back to the Sultan. Or to whoever sent them in the first place. They had the nerve to try one on Will when we first got here."

Will looked unutterably pained, and Allan promised himself that he'd get the full story when things were back to normal. But right now, some of the queasiness of the night before returned, and Allan felt the street sway slightly under his feet.

Surely not. Why would anyone send such a woman after _him_? He didn't know any state secrets. He didn't know anything! Nothing at all that would endanger anyone. So there was no point even bringing it up.

* * *

"Are you sure we should go in?" Allan asked as they reached the postern gate. "I just think it might be difficult for either one of you to leave again…"

He drifted off. Neither one of them were listening. They entered through the small door that Allan had been ushered through by the boy the night before, and crossed the lawns. Ahead they could see the steps leading up to the immense rooms where the party had taken place, and they slowed as they neared, noticing that it seemed just as crowded this morning as it had last night. As they stepped up, faces began to turn toward them – coldly curious, darkly accusing faces.

Without thinking, both Allan and Will drew closer to Djaq, flanking her on either side. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, muttering quietly as the trio moved through the room. At the far end, a tired-looking Malik was in conversation with Khalid and Ameer.

Ameer glanced up as they approached and immediately drew himself up to his full height.

"There he is!" he cried, pointing with one meaty finger. "I want that man arrested."

Djaq slipped her hand into Will's and squeezed it, though in fear or reassurance, he couldn't tell.

"I did not kill Alevi-al-Dayir," Will said, in his best Arabic. "I had no reason to. I have fought for peace since I was eighteen years old, and nothing would make me risk that. Or endanger Safiyah."

But Ameer had already worked himself up into a frenzy, and Allan was suddenly reminded of the Sheriff in one of his states.

"It was _his_ axe that killed my nephew! The physician said so! He was out walking in the gardens yesterday night – he must have seen Alevi through the arches and killed him then."

"I _was_ out walking," Will said firmly, suddenly wishing for his father, his brother, his long-dead mother; for Robin, for Little John, for Much even. His voice quavered slightly.

"I heard a woman's scream and I raced toward the archways. I didn't see anyone in the gardens or on the steps, but by the time I got there, a crowd had gathered around the…around Alevi. Someone stole my hatchet earlier in the day and used it to make it look as though _I_ killed him."

"Any physician worth his salt could have seen that," Djaq said. "The blood had barely begun to flow out of the wounds."

Ameer made a noise of disgust, echoed by horrified little cries from the women gathered about. Djaq raised her chin higher, though the gesture was largely lost from behind her veil.

Ameer turned back to Malik, who was watching Will steadily with his cat-like eyes.

"I want him thrown in your dungeons! White English _pig_! They come and defile our lands with their war-mongering, and then destroy our attempt at forging peace with them!"

There was a rustle of concurrence among the crowd, and Malik raised an imperative hand.

"There will be no arrests without sufficient evidence," he said, raising his voice so the entire room could hear, then moved forward to speak to Will more intimately, though his voice could still be heard by those close by. "But you Will Scarlett will be under house arrest until this matter is resolved."

Will opened his mouth to protest, but the prince cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. "This is as much for your protection as it is to placate Ameer. The guards have already been ordered not to let you leave, so there is no use arguing."

He gestured to the couple, and the glowering Ameer as well, marching from the room with the three of them in his wake. After a moment of indecision, Allan – who had only vaguely been able to follow the conversation – followed, casting one last look around the room. The mood was unmistakable. In just one night, Will and Djaq's union had gone from a symbol of hope and unity, into something worthy of only disgust and scorn.

* * *

In the corridor where Alevi's body had been found, the desert heat pouring in from the archways, Prince Malik was talking in regal tones to the gathered assembly: Will and Djaq standing shoulder to shoulder, Ameer breathing heavily opposite them, Khalid with his arms crossed. Allan waited quietly, once more overlooked, and after a few more heated words were exchanged, Ameer stormed out. Khalid left out of another door, and with a nod, the prince returned to the room he'd just exited.

Will and Djaq looked as though they wanted nothing more than to fall into each other's arms, but Allan's presence, as well as the appearance of a small boy who popped up from behind a door stopped them. Allan recognised him as the boy who had brought him to the palace the night before, and Will and Djaq smiled sadly down on him like doting parents.

A few words passed between them and Djaq affectionately tousled his hair before the boy wrapped his arms around her waist.

"What's this about?" Allan asked, having been rather struck by the warmth of the scene.

"Shawqi here was just telling us that he thinks Black Coda is behind it all."

"Black Coda?"

Djaq rolled her eyes. "A crime lord. Apparently a legendary bandit and a master of disguises. He's just a folk-story, blamed in this city for everything from murders to lost pets."

"Well, better blame him than me," Will pointed out with a dry laugh, and Shawqi reached out to include Will in his clumsy hug. With a deep sigh, not caring who was watching, Djaq closed her eyes, leaned over and rested her head on Will's shoulder.

"I think you should get some rest," Will told her gently, and placed a hand on her shoulder, brushing his thumb lightly over the nape of her neck. She relaxed under his touch for what seemed like the first time that day, and when Allan realised he was staring, he turned to the tapestry hanging on the wall, pretending to be fascinated by the way it undulated in the soft breeze. They were speaking softly in Arabic now. Even if he'd been able to hear properly, he wouldn't have been able to understand them. Once again the dark little voice began to drip poison into his mind.

They weren't _his_ Will and Djaq anymore. They belonged to each other. But perhaps they'd _never_ been his Will and Djaq. Perhaps the whole thing had been one big game of pretend, right from the very start. Maybe his whole life he'd just been fooling himself. And after all, he recalled, with a sudden surge of resentment, they had stayed here in the Holy Land, abandoning Robin Hood's cause when Marian died, abandoning England, abandoning _him_. They had chosen each other when the outlaws needed them the most. It had been two long, lonely years for him…he could have died in England and never seen them again. Would they have even cared? Probably muttered a prayer or two and then gotten on with life. He took a deep breath, and trying to calm himself down.

Will kissed Djaq's forehead as she yawned and moved away down the corridor, clearly exhausted.

"You don't look too good yourself mate," Allan said. "Maybe you should get some-"

"You have to leave here," Will said shortly. "Shawqi will take you back to the inn. Then you have to go – back to Acre, back to England."

Allan was speechless for a few moments.

"But I – I just got here. And I want to help."

"You can't help us Allan, not in this way. The things happening right now – you can't _begin_ to understand. It's better if you just leave."

"But, Djaq-"

"What about her?" he said, his voice suddenly sharp.

Allan met his eyes, his jaw set, refusing to let Will make him feel inadequate. Djaq was _his_ friend, and he couldn't help but notice that Will had waited till she was out of sight before breaking this news to him.

"I want to help her."

"That's _my_ job."

He stopped, struck by Will's tone of voice.

"What's the real reason for this Will? At a time like this, you need all the friends you can get."

"You're not my friend. You just turn up out of nowhere and – what? Just think you can pick up where you left off? Which, if you recall, was _you_ selling secrets to our enemies."

"Will-"

"_No_. Don't pretend you're a part of this. Djaq and I have weathered worse, and you have no idea what we've been through together. And right now, it's too dangerous to have you around. You'll only make things worse."

Allan could only stare at the youth's face, his arms crossed, his voice dark, all the arguments he might have mustered silenced in the face of that inscrutable obstinacy.

"Shawqi," Will said, his eyes never leaving Allan. "Take this man back to the inn." Then he turned and walked away.

* * *

Will closed the bedroom door behind him, leaving it unlocked, and pulled his shirt off, balling it up in his fists for a few moments before hurling it across the room. When he heard the door latch click and the bolt slide across, he didn't turn around or speak, not even when Djaq slid her arms around his waist.

"We will fix this," he heard her say.

"We'll fix it," he echoed back dully.

Slowly he turned in her arms until he was facing her, and ran his fingers across her forehead; down her cheek to the hollow of her throat. He closed his eyes as she moved in closer and drew a line of kisses across his collarbone.

"We will speak no more of it tonight," he heard her murmur.

But he knew what she was doing. He had not yet told her how he felt about what had happened. He had only acted, as he always did, with grim determination and steely silence. Now she was offering him comfort, and in doing so, attempting to draw answers from his body when she knew they would not be forthcoming through speech.

Sure enough, as they shuffled closer to the bed, every instinct in him began to demand that he hold her so closely that nothing would ever be able to remove her from his arms. But before he reached that point, he summoned every grain of self-control he possessed, and held her out at arm's length, afraid to let her know just how terrified he truly was.

"Djaq-" was all he could manage, sitting down heavily on the end of the bed. She straddled his lap, and cupped his face between her hands.

"It will be alright my love," she whispered, kissing his closed eyelids softly. "We'll figure it out. And Allan is here too, remember? The three of us together will find out – what is it?"

He'd tensed in her arms, his eyes now open and fixed firmly on the wall opposite.

"I just…"

"What?"

"Allan."

She peered down into his face, but he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.

"What about Allan?"

He stood up suddenly, and she gave a soft cry as she slipped off his lap, clutching the side of the bed for balance.

"I sent Allan away," he told her, still gazing at the wall.

"Away? Where? _Why_?"

"We can't trust him."

"Cannot trust him? Will, at this stage, Allan is the only one we _can_ trust."

He turned around, stared at her.

"Why do you say that?"

She blinked in astonishment.

"He was our friend."

He strode forward and gripped her firmly by the arms, wanting her to understand.

"_No_ Djaq. We thought he was our friend but he _never was_. How long did we really know him? A year? He was just our friend because it suited him. And when a better deal came along, he took it. I missed him too, I did – but we were missing someone who never existed in the first place."

Djaq shook her head slowly.

"He is a good man. Deep down, he is."

"I bet Marian thought the same thing about Guy. Maybe that's why she couldn't stay away from him. But whatever she thought she saw in him was _never_ there at all. And she paid for it."

Djaq was quiet, staring intently into his eyes, looking for something.

"What is this really about?"

Will took a deep breath.

"Allan found Alevi's body."

"Yes. So?"

"There was something wrong with him. He wasn't himself last night."

"He looked drunk to me."

"He could have been pretending."

Djaq took a deep breath, and shook herself out of his grip. "Will, what are you trying to say?"

When he didn't answer she nudged him sharply.

"You are not seriously suggesting that Allan killed Alevi. Why would he?"

Will marvelled at how someone so intelligent could be so blind.

"Because he was paid!"

"Will, that is the most-"

But Will's mind was racing now – Allan had approached him in the city, he'd gotten himself invited to the palace, at this precise time, in this very place. It was all too much of a coincidence, surely…

"Will, he wouldn't _do_ that. He is a good m-"

But Will had had enough. The heat and the fury and the stress that had been building finally erupted, and there was only one person he could take it out on.

"He wouldn't do _what_ Djaq? _What_? Sell out his friends for money? Betray his country? Work for the man who killed his own _brother_? You don't think he's capable of _that_?" By now he was yelling. "How much do you think he sold you for? And what do you think he spent the money on? Ale? Women? Did you ever consider _that_?"

"Will, stop and think-"

"He doesn't care about you at _all_, and it's pathetic the way you keep defending him. You always have, even back in England, and he knows he can get whatever he wants from you. But you're _nothing_ to him. Less than one of his wh-"

She stepped forward, her hand raised as though about to slap him. She caught herself just in time, but her upright hand remained in the air, and the two of them stared at it in shock. Will's eyes dropped to the ground for a moment before he looked back up at her, quietly pleading now.

"Why do you defend him? I just can't…it doesn't make sense to me."

She stared at him wordlessly for a moment. Then she left, closing the door softly behind her.

* * *

Allan had gone in search of his usual source of comfort, the only one he'd had for the past two years, ever since his little misdemeanour with Margaret in the upstairs room at the Trip. As it turned out, he could recognise a tavern for what it was even in the Holy Land. There was one across the road from the inn, the lamps beckoning to him from the open doorway like a holy light would call a sinner to confession. Shawqui had dropped him off outside the inn, waiting expectantly for a few coins that Allan wasn't prepared to give, before he scampered off into the night. Allan turned away from the inn and the bed that waited, and trudged down the small flight of steps into the murky depths of the tavern.

Perhaps due to the proximity of the inn, the man behind the bar was used to foreign visitors, and pushed him over a tankard after only a few vague gestures. Allan sat down with a sigh. It was hard to believe that this time last night he'd had a woman in his arms for the first time in years, and now he was alone again, lost in politics instead of pleasure.

Allan wrapped his hands around the drink, and his thoughts around Djaq.

He often looked over the course of his life, so riddled with failures and regrets, and wondered sometimes if he really could have won her. Some days he laughed at himself for thinking it, because it was so ridiculously impossible, but other times he remembered certain moments, and the way she'd looked at him, and he caught his breath dreaming of what could have been, if only…if only…

He never knew how to finish that thought. He only knew that it would have been the best thing to happen in this whole sorry excuse for a life…and he had to know. He couldn't leave without finding out.

He swallowed the last mouthful of whatever it was he was drinking, and dropped a few of Bassam's coins on the bar. It was very late.

The inn door was still unlocked, though the landlord was no where to be seen. Yawning loudly, began his clumsy ascent up the staircase. The hallway at the top swayed only slightly as he counted the doors down to his room. Rubbing his eyes, he fumbled with the door handle and opened it, only to be greeted with the rather extraordinary sight of Djaq, who was curled up and fast asleep in his bed.

* * *

Will lay in bed, furious with himself. What had possessed him? Had he really said those things?

He rolled over in bed and punched the pillow. It had all started because he'd done the one thing he'd sworn he'd never do – discuss Allan here, in their bedroom. And now, what had he done? To the person he loved most…

A noise – was it Djaq? He raised his head up from the pillows and glanced about the room. Nothing of course. With a low moan he sat upright and pulled himself out of bed. It was useless just lying here. Everyone was asleep, but he didn't want to wait until morning to apologise to her. Had he _really_ said those things?

His feet touched the floor, he rose up. He just wanted Djaq.

He was halfway to the door when they struck – a great shove from behind, his arms twisted behind his back, a sack yanked over his head. And then pain, a terrible blow on the back of his head that created white lights before his eyes.

Then the darkness all around him became even darker, and he slipped to the floor.

* * *

_Eep! Next week: Djaq fast asleep in Allan's bed...Will with a hood over his head...someone else might end up dead... _


	12. Voices in the Shadows

**Chapter 11: Voices in the Shadows**

For a moment he just stared, blinking in astonishment. God couldn't possibly be _this_ obliging to Allan-a-Dale. He backed out to check if it was the right door, and when he returned she was still there, fast asleep. That ale must be powerful stuff…and yet she looked real enough, curled up like a pill-bug to keep herself warm, just as he'd seen her do every cold night in Sherwood.

He approached just a bit unsteadily and crouched down next to the cot, remembering the contests they'd had back in Sherwood as to who could stay awake the longest. He had usually won, leaving him to watch her slumber from across the campfire. She still frowned when she slept, and for a while he just watched as she breathed in and out, almost able to hear the wind rustle in Sherwood's trees and see the firelight dancing across her face.

He suddenly realised that this small sleeping form terrified him. She knew him too well, that was the problem, well enough that she had guessed what he was up to in Sherwood and cautioned him even before he was found out. But…_did_ she know him? She'd seemed convinced he was a good man, insisting on the presence of something inside him that he doubted really existed at all. She either knew him better than he did himself, or she didn't know him at all.

After a few moments, he tentatively reached out and touched her cheek. Her eyes flew open and she sat up so suddenly that he lost his balance and tumbled backwards onto his rear-end with a yelp.

"Will?" she said, and then blinked at Allan, remembering where she was. She sat herself upright and rubbed her eyes. "Allan."

"Yeah, it's me," he replied, still rather disconcerted. "What are you doin' 'ere?"

"I came looking for you," she said. "I knew Will brought you to this inn when you arrived, so I snuck in after dark, but you weren't here and I…I must have fallen asleep. Sorry."

She tucked her hair behind her ears self-consciously and squirmed uncomfortably.

"S'alright," he said, debating whether he should take a seat beside her on the bed, and then deciding it was best not to. He shuffled into a more comfortable position on the floor. "What's the matter?"

Sadness clouded her features.

"Nothing. It is just…Will told me that he asked you to go. I do not think he realised what a mistake that was."

"A mistake?" He tried to keep the hopeful squeak out of his voice.

"Yes. The palace…it's crawling with whispers and rumours and deceit." Her dark eyes met his, and with quiet certainty she told him: "You are the only one I can trust."

His heart twisted in his chest at those dreaded words. Trusting him was something no one must _ever_ do.

"Your coming here was a gift from Allah," she went on earnestly, and he managed a weak smile.

"And here I was thinking I was a bad luck charm."

"Do not be silly," she told him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "There is a reason you are here. There is always a reason for everything."

Allan dismissed this logic without even pondering it. Djaq slipped off the bed and shuffled close to him, her hair spilling over her face, her voice lowering to a whisper as though there might be people listening.

"I just thought, given your…_experience_, you might have some ideas."

He looked at her thoughtfully, then assumed her air of secrecy, leaning in so that his forehead almost touched hers.

"What we need to do is try and figure out _why_ Alevi was killed."

She snorted. "Well, that is fairly obvious."

"Oh yeah? Why then?"

She opened her mouth and then closed it again. "To frame Will," she finally managed.

"Ah, but I thought you said the wounds in 'is 'ead wouldn't fool anyone with half a brain. If it was a frame-up job, it weren't a very good one."

"But…why then? Why kill him?"

"Any number of reasons, more than we could possibly count. The most obvious reason is to disrupt the peace talks. Without Alevi, the treaty can't get signed. They'll have to get the Sultan to pick someone else, which I'm guessin' will take up a lot of time."

Djaq nodded.

"And then, who stands to gain from the peace talks gettin' called off?" he asked her. "War is an expensive business – someone always stands to make money, and money will always be a good enough reason to do just about anything."

He met her gaze full-on, thinking that he may as well be completely candid about it.

"Then again, Alevi could be dead for different reasons. You're right when you say that Will's bein' framed, which means someone's got it in for the two of you. Maybe someone hates Englishmen. Maybe someone wants to get back at _you_ for breaking all the rules: marrying someone who's not Saracen and what-not. Or maybe someone just didn't like Alevi. And they disliked him so much that they killed 'im twice, once with poison and again with a hatchet for good measure."

Djaq's eyes gleamed in the moonlight. "Ameer," she hissed. "He was jealous of his nephew for being the Sultan's spokesman and the one chosen to sign the treaty. What do you think?"

What Allan _thought_ was that Djaq's dislike for the man was clouding her judgment, but he saw no reason to tell her that. "All I know is that whoever did this has managed to prevent a peace treaty from being signed, broken up your betrothal, and brought us all back to the brink of war. Whoever it is either _wants_ a war, or wants something _else_ so much that 'e doesn't care what happens on the way to gettin' it."

He stopped and sighed, raking his fingers through his hair.

"But if 'e wanted war, why not just start a brawl with the Crusaders?" he muttered. "Why be so careful and secretive 'bout it all?"

They were both silent for a few moments, pondering this over. It all reminded Allan of that day in Nottingham's dungeons – how torture and fear and silky words had come together so perfectly to twist his perception and turn him traitor. The same sort of manipulations were happening here, but on such a deep level that he couldn't even see it. And he _should_ be able to see it. Djaq was counting on him to do so.

Djaq shivered suddenly.

"It's getting cold. Is there a window open?"

"Oh yeah, I got it," Allan said, glancing up and seeing that the small window above the bed still had the shutters open. He clambored up onto the blankets and reached out, only to gasp as illumination lit up the recesses of his memory.

"That's it!" he cried. "That's where I've seen the man!"

"Who? What man?" Djaq asked. Thinking that he was looking at something outside, she climbed up beside him. He pointed to the street corner opposite.

"On the day I arrived, I saw Ameer arguin' with a man out there. And the man he was with was the servant in black that insulted you last night. The one that came out of the cool room where Alevi's body was kept. I didn't recognise him because 'e had a beard the first time I saw him. But I never forget a face."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Absolutely. They were talkin' right on that corner. Ameer looked angry and the man looked smug – like he'd given him some bad news. I remember thinking that Ameer looked different from the first time I saw him."

"Wait – the first time?"

"Oh yeah, 'e was 'ere in the inn earlier to say 'ello to Will."

Djaq raised a sceptical eyebrow. "A man like Ameer does not stop by inns to say hello to people he considers inferior."

The same idea entered their heads at the same time.

"He must have come here to meet with this man, but Will musta spotted him!" Allan cried.

"Then he covered by saying he'd just stopped by to congratulate him," she finished.

Their eyes gleamed with excitement, and Allan reached for another possibility.

"This bloke who's walkin' around disguised as a servant…I think he might be Khalid's Nasir."

"Who?"

Allan quickly briefed her on the conversation Will had had with Khalid outside her bedroom door, swatting aside her irritation that she was only now being informed of it. She sat back down on the cot, lost in thought. Allan eased himself down next to her carefully.

"Nasir was a common thief," she said. "Dismissed from his master's service for dishonesty and reduced to poverty."

Allan tried not to wince at the connotations this statement carried. She continued: "I do not believe for a second that someone like Ameer would know someone like Nasir. He wouldn't sully his hands." She sniffed, as if to say that _she_ wouldn't sully her hands either.

For the first time it occurred to Allan that Djaq was something of a snob.

"Djaq, sometimes the castle lot recognise things in the rest of us that they _need_. And there are certain people who…they sort of have a foot in both worlds. They can bring the rich 'n the poor together. Like Robin – I would never have met Marian if it 'adn't been for Robin. And I never would 'ave met the sheriff if it 'adn't been for Guy. He came looking for me in a tavern."

"What's your point?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find the right words to explain it to her.

"The thing is…this Nasir. From what Will told me from what _Khalid_ said, 'e was…a small man. 'E stole trinkets, 'e probably conned other servants. 'E's an opportunist kinda guy, goin' after an easy deal, like-" he forced himself to say the words " – like me. 'E don't give the orders, but 'e doesn't make the plans either. 'E's just the whipping boy. Now, if you think Ameer is behind all this…sure. That makes sense. Let's say 'e's the sheriff. The one that's telling everyone what 'e wants done, and paying 'em to do it.

"But no one can touch people like Ameer and the sheriff, at least, not people like you and me. Let's be honest, you've got no chance against 'im. 'E's got money and power and influence, and you can't mess with that." He cut short her protests. "And the Nasirs…the a-Dales…they usually manage to slip through your fingers. They're not worth it anyway," he muttered. "What you need to go after is the third element…the guy who's got a foot in both worlds."

"The third element?"

"Yup. There's Ameer, who's pushing the pieces around the board. Then there's Nasir, who's spyin' and running errands. And _then_ there's the guy who brought 'em both together, the one who's doing all the work. The actual murderer himself. _That's_ the guy you've got to track down. The one who does what 'e's paid to do and obeys orders without questioning them. So long as 'e gets paid, 'e don't care what those orders are. But 'e's not above the law. Which means that if you find 'im, he'll hang."

Djaq glowered. "But if Ameer is behind all of this, then it is _him_ I want. The head of the snake."

"It don't work like that. You could shove proof at 'im in front of a room of witnesses and 'e'd probably just laugh at you. The only way we're going to get Will out of this mess to find number three. _But, _in order to find him, we'll have to go through Ameer. He'll have the information on him somewhere – we just need to find it and follow the trail."

"Black Coda," she said.

"Huh?"

"I was just thinking. This 'third man' that you are talking about, he would be someone like Black Coda. A mysterious name without a face. Black Coda seems a good enough name to use for a paid assassin. If he exists."

"He _does_," Allan said firmly. He was sure of it.

A grim little smile crossed Djaq's face before she yawned. "I should get back to the palace. It is-"

"No!" he cried. "It's late. The streets will be full of crooks. Not that you couldn't handle them…but…"

She smiled softly and blinked heavily. "I should find Will. We, ah – we had a little argument before I came here."

He didn't ask what it was about. He didn't have to.

"Sorry."

"It is not your fault."

"Yes it is. I probably shouldn't 'ave come 'ere."

She looked at him sharply. "Why not? We said two years ago – we said that you would come back when the fighting stopped."

He nodded, looking down at his hands.

"Two years is a long time," she went on. "And we have not had a chance to talk. Will you tell me more of the others?"

And he did. She'd always been so easy to talk to, and the words rolled off his tongue, all he and the others had been through since they had set sail for England, their struggle against the sheriff, the final defeat of Prince John, the fates of the other outlaws: Much's marriage, John's search for his family, Robin's loneliness. Then it was her turn, and he listened in awe as she described all of what she and Will had been through. She'd had to return to short hair and boyish clothes in order to successfully negotiate the subterfuges and spying, the disguises and danger, and the final victory in which they'd seen Saladin and Richard shake hands in front of two armies. Then they drifted back into silence, looking back over their lengthy absence from each other.

As of yet, Allan had not touched on the subject of his stint as Guy's right-hand man. He had imagined explaining his thoughts to the both of them together, but watching her quiet, focused little face, sitting there next to him on the bed, he felt himself inching closer to the question he needed answered. He licked his lips nervously as she finished off the tale of how she'd met little Shawqi when he'd tried to pick Will's pockets. He took a deep breath, he braced himself – and then found himself asking something completely different instead.

"When did you know you loved Will?" She gaped at him for a moment, and then gave an embarrassed little laugh, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Why do you want to know that?"

"I just do. When I left you two were still dancin' circles around each other. When I got back, it was all gooey eyes and fluttery pigeons."

She squirmed a little at this description.

"It…came on gradually I think. It took me a while to see him in _that_ way. But I think the change came on the day we found Lar-din-Neer. I began to see him a little differently after that."

Allan remembered that day. The day Will had confronted Guy of Gisbourne and saved a woman from loosing her finger, whilst he had just stood there with his faced buried his hand. The day he'd found himself chasing Djaq through the forest on horseback wondering what on earth he was going to do if they caught up to her. The day Will had asked him if he was enjoying himself under the employ of his enemies, and only escaped hanging because his fellow captive had the presence of mind to tear the key from his belt. That was the day she had fallen in love with Will.

"When he told me he had been captured by the sheriff's men and nearly hung…I was upset, but I could not understand why I was so _afraid_ as well, especially with him standing right there in front of me, safe and sound. He nearly had to die in order for me to begin to realise. And then, that day in Nettlestone _I_ nearly had to die in order for me to really know. _Incipit vita nova._"

"What's that?"

"It is Latin for 'here begins the new life.' It felt as though the sun was rising inside me."

Her eyes were glazed over, as though looking at something far distant or deep within herself. "I can't even remember what it was I told him. Probably something idiotic. But I said that I loved him. And then he said it back. And the next thing I remember clearly…was you coming up to the door and helping us escape."

She turned to him with an odd little smile on her face.

"Got there just in the nick of time," he said, trying to force joviality into his voice. "I have a great sense of timing. When I arrived here and found Will…he told me that was the first time you'd seen each other in months."

"That's right. Six months actually."

"Blimey, that must've been some reunion. What did you two _do_?"

"We had been apart for six months, what do you _think_ we did?"

She said it as a joke, with a smile on her face, but something cold settled over him at the words: a sense of finality. Well, that answers _that_ question, said the spiteful little voice. He kept his eyes on her, feeling utterly desolate; like finding Lardner dead, like seeing an arrow skewer a bag of silver, like hearing that his only brother was going to hang. Only those times, at least he'd understood why he felt that way. But the cause of why he was feeling it now was a mystery, except for the vague sense that he had somehow lost her all over again.

* * *

Although a blindfold was tightened around his eyes, Will could tell that he was somewhere near water – he could hear the slush of it at the very edge of his hearing. He knew that whoever had lashed the ropes around both his wrists and the arms of the chair knew how to tie knots, for the rope cut into his skin every time he struggled. And he could hear things around him, including two voices arguing back and forth.

"Why did you have to change everything?" The first voice was nasal, unpleasant and soaked in worry. "We were supposed to take the _woman_, not this dog!"

A cool and regal voice answered him, tempered with a bite of impatience. "Did you leave the ransom note?"

"Yes," came the sullen reply. "She'll find it soon enough. And I trust _you_ took care of the al-Dayir family?"

There was a soft chuckle. "Yes. They won't be back. Everything just as you wanted it."

"Like hell it is!" snapped the nasal voice. "You endangered everything! First this notion to use the hatchet – I could have _told_ you that any physician would be able to see Alevi was not killed by such wounds. You were lucky that the prince's doctor was open to bribery. And now you've switched the hostage! _Why?_

"Why _not_?" snapped the dark voice. "It doesn't matter either way. The whole point of the exercise was to prevent the peace treaty. Isn't that what you asked for? Isn't that what you've _got?_ And now the English and the Saracens will be at each other's throats again. Your path to Saladin is clear."

There was a low grumble. "But my people couldn't care less if _he_ dies. If we'd taken the woman then Prince Malik would have torn down the city searching for her, and this English pig probably would have been blamed for her disappearance!" He grumbled inaudibly for a few moments. "I wanted it to be _her_. She's betrayed her country and her people. I wanted her to suffer for it. I thought that you could…make her suffer…"

There was an odd silence from the other man at this, and all Will could hear was the pounding of his blood in his ears as he strained against the rope, feeling as though his heart would burst.

Then the second voice, no longer regal, but hoarse and tired: "It's better this way. A new element introduced itself unexpectedly. And that changed things."

There was a snort from the first voice, and then the sound of something clinking.

"That's the last of your fee. And that concludes out business…?"

This last comment carried the hint of a question.

"It does," was the reply. "You can go now."

"Aren't you going to count it to make sure it's all there?"

"No need. It's not for me."

The first man cleared his throat. "And the woman? Are you done with her?"

"Hmm? Oh yes. She played her part well. Very well."

There was an ugly little laugh from the nasal voice, something that seemed to infuriate the regal one, for there was a loud bang from his side of the room that Will guessed was a fist slapping the table-top in anger.

"She'll be sent back to you presently, along with all her _gifts_."

The last word was loaded with meaning, and said in a tone that Will could not interpret. Was it disgust or sarcasm or something else entirely?

There was a shuffling, the sound of a door closing and the snick of a lock. He realised he was alone. He would die here, that much was certain. He had recognised the voices of the two men and white terror had shot through him before it faded into black despair. The owners of those voices would never let him leave this place alive. He wasn't sure why they hadn't killed him already, but until the time came he would be left in darkness as black as his thoughts.

The very last memory she'd have of him would be one of anger and accusation. The same anger that had driven his father to his death, the scarlet-anger that could very well be the death of her as well when she began looking for him. And to Allan he'd been curt and dismissive. That would be how his once-best friend would remember him.

He strained against his ropes, raging against a future that would go on without him. Djaq would be alright…she'd lived through so much pain already, she could survive one more collusion with tragedy. Perhaps you got used to it over time. And Allan would be there to comfort her. To help her escape to Bassam's house, to take her back to England with him, to hold her in the night when she wept. He cried out, he couldn't help it. After all his effort, all his blood and sweat, it was Allan who had walked in at the last minute and won the day. Rage against the world, against fate, against God Himself worked itself into every muscle he possessed, and it still did not loosen his bonds.

The wound on the back of his head was still wet, making him dizzy and tired. He must still be bleeding, and along with his lifeblood seeped away his fury. His thoughts drifted…away from his circumstances and back to his loved ones. Robin and John, Luke and Much. He'd never see them again. They'd never know what had become of him, and he'd never again see England; its cool lakes and rustling green forests.

_Allan._

For the first time, not all thoughts of him were tinged with bitterness. He remembered Allan as he once was, before all the lies and betrayal. Allan's smile as he told some ribald joke. Allan's eyes gleaming as he thought up some new way to sneak into the castle. The oddly endearing way about him as they fought back to back, talked around the campfire, burst out the same confession at the same time about the same woman. It was funny, though Will hadn't realised it until now, that two such different men could have felt the same way about her.

He was even glad, in the deepest part of himself, to have seen Allan again. Glad that Djaq wouldn't be alone.

_Djaq._

He recalled that night together, the one after he'd returned from his duties with King Richard, when she had come to him in candlelight, wearing the secret look on her face that was reserved for him alone. Fierce and tender at the same time. The softness of her skin under his hands, the scent of her hair like perfume filling his mind…

One night with the woman he loved. That was all he was ever going to get. Just one.

It was more than Robin ever got, he reminded himself. But Robin at least would be united with Marian in eternity. Will and Djaq were only permitted this one lifetime together. And now Will would die and go to Christ's Heaven. Djaq would live on and then depart for Allah's. Somehow Paradise would have to be endured without her.

Despair is silent, and so no one heard Will Scarlett break.

* * *

_Okay, I know this is getting very dark, but hang in there. I'm not as stupid as the show's writers; I know that everyone loves a happy ending - I just think characters should work for them first! Next chapter: Allan and Djaq put a plan into action._


	13. The Letter on the Pillow

**Chapter 12: The Letter on the Pillow**

The next morning, Allan and Djaq marched into the palace as though it belonged to them.

"Sure you know what to do?" he muttered out the side of his mouth.

"Of _course_," she answered smartly. "He'll be in the men's aviary this time of day, looking over the birds."

"_Men's_ aviary? Are you allowed in there?"

"No. It's this way."

She veered left down a corridor, stopping when they reached a door that could not entirely contain the pungent scent of the birds behind it.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Ready."

She burst through the door with all the extravagance she could muster. Allan crept in behind her, his head bowed like a servant. Drawing herself up to her full height, Djaq confronted a startled-looking Ameer at the top of her lungs. He had been feeding a hawk in a cage, and next to him stood Prince Malik, the papers in his hand dropped in fright as Djaq bore down on them.

"_You_ killed Alevi!" she cried in fury. "You wanted him dead because you could not stand the fact that _he_ was signing the peace treaty. You are probably attempting to take his place even now!" She waved a hand at the papers scattered on the floor. "You cannot even wait until his corpse is cold!"

"Safiyah-" Malik interjected, looking shocked, as Ameer's paunchy face turned purple. "You should not be in here."

"Do not try to silence me!" he shrieked, whipping herself up into a frenzy. Allan smiled to himself as he slipped between the aisles of the bird cages, seen only by the dozens of imperious golden eyes from within.

"I know that you hired someone to kill your own nephew, I know that you took the hatchet from Will's room and ordered Alevi to be bludgeoned to death!" Her eyes flashed above her veil.

"Silence woman!" Ameer suddenly roared, and turned furiously to Malik. "_See_ my prince, this is what happens to our women when they sleep with English pigs!"

"Safiyah," Malik said, now stern. "I know you are upset about Will, but you speak out of turn. Ameer would not have killed his nephew over the treaty. It was Ameer who passed over the chance to become a signatory in _favour_ of Alevi. It was his belief that someone youthful should sign on behalf of our people."

Djaq was gob-smacked for a moment, before collecting herself.

"Who was it then that you met in secret outside Jasim's Inn? The man who gave you news that was not to your liking? Was it Nasir? Is he the man who you paid to do the deed?"

Ameer had gone pale, and flapped his hands in agitation. "I owe _you_ no explanations," he finally sneered, storming away with a none-too-gentle push against her shoulder.

Malik looked at her with disappointment.

"That was a foolish thing you did Safiyah," he said quietly. "Ameer is a man of very high standing. You do not really believe he would order the death of his own nephew, do you?"

Djaq was silent behind her veil, her arms crossed. Malik sighed. "Very well. I know you are concerned about all this. Where is Will Scarlett this morning?"

She did not look at him. "I believe he is still asleep. He was very tired last night."

"Yes, I can imagine…" The prince hesitated for a moment, as though wanting to say something more, then sighed and left the room.

Djaq raised her eyes to Allan, who had secretly been making his way around the cages to stand directly behind the two men. She cocked an eyebrow in query. He grinned, and held up the key he'd lifted from Ameer's heavy robes.

* * *

But Djaq was still looking slightly disconcerted as Allan fitted the key into the door of Ameer's chamber, after pressing his ear against the wood and listening carefully to make sure it was empty.

"What is it?" he asked her.

"Just what Malik said about Ameer. That Ameer was chosen to sign the treaty, but he gave it up for Alevi. It just…does not sound like Ameer at all. But without that motivation, he had no reason to order his nephew's death. At least none that I can see."

Allan shrugged as he turned the key and opened the door. "Maybe 'e had 'is own reasons."

Djaq bit down on her thumb, still confused.

Ameer's rooms were sparsely furnished, and there was nothing left to search once they checked in his wardrobe, behind the curtains and though the drawers of a small writing desk.

"I'm not even sure what we're meant to be _looking_ for," Djaq said, getting frustrated.

"'Ang on," Allan replied, thinking of one last hiding place. "Ah-_hah_!"

He pulled a chest out from under the bed. Djaq knelt down beside him, quietly clapping her hands in glee as he fingered the heavy lock that held it shut.

"I don't suppose you've got a…?"

He looked down to see a hairpin pinched between her fingers, and took it with a smile.

"One of the advantages to long hair, eh?" he said, fitting it in the lock.

"One of the few. Sometimes I miss the boy's haircut. Much easier to wash."

Allan eased the pin through the mechanism until it sprang open with a pleasing click. Together they flung it open and pounced on the contents.

"Ledgers, papers…a letter!" Djaq cried, seizing it. She ran her fingers over the seal, before making her mind up and tearing it open. "To Alevi…from Ameer!"

She unfolded it and scanned though, her hopeful face fading into a frown.

"What is it?" Allan asked, leaning over and wishing he could understand the black scrawl.

"It's not important. At least, I don't think it is. Ameer is telling his nephew that he will have to wait…he is not yet finished with a woman called Umayma, and does not want to return her to Alevi's household yet."

"U-what-what?"

Her eyes flickered down further and her shoulders slumped in disappointment. "A concubine I would say. Just some sordid little agreement between them. Men often trade mistresses, for favours or thank-yous."

"Huh. Hey – maybe _she's_ the reason Ameer let Alevi be the Sultan's signatory. A woman for a signature!"

Djaq wrinkled her nose. "Ameer is an old goat, but I doubt he would pass up on that kind of prestige just for a woman. Would you?"

"Guess it would depend on the woman."

But she was busy perusing the rest of the letter, and didn't hear him. As he drummed his fingers on the side of the chest, her frown deepened again.

"Wait – listen to this…I think there's something here after all." She cleared her throat and began to read out loud, translating as she went.

"_You are a shrewd young man, and I have always been an affectionate and generous uncle. Your last letter was not so obtuse that I could not tell that you have guessed the purpose for which I requested her company. And I agree, may Allah forbid that her skills become known to either the court or the Sultan. Yet despite your claims to the contrary, she is still of some worth to me. I am sure you and I can work together to keep things discreet."  
_  
Her voice had been growing more excited, the hand that rested on his knee squeezed tighter as she read on.

"What does that sound like to you?" she asked.

"Blackmail," he replied. "Alevi _knew_ something that Ameer didn't want let out of the bag."

He suddenly recalled Alevi's demeanour the night he had been killed. His mind was racing now.

"He was nervous during the party," he said. "Like maybe he knew he was in over his head. And he kept touching all his jewellery, as though he wasn't used to it."

"Like it was a new acquisition?" she asked. "Like maybe it was all a bribe to keep him quiet?"

"Exactly. Ameer must've given it all to him as payment for keeping quiet about this woman. But then…this letter was still sealed. He never sent it."

Djaq shrugged. "Maybe by the time he wrote it, he didn't _need_ to send it anymore. He had already arranged a different way of taking care of Alevi."

"Blimey," he muttered. "Who _is_ this woman?"

"And why did Ameer go to such lengths to keep her a secret?"

They were silent for a moment, trying to comprehend it all. Then Djaq jumped to her feet.

"There's no time to waste! We must take this to Prince Malik!" She was out the door in a moment, leaving Allan to shove the chest back under the bed.

"Hang on girl!" he cried after her. "Shouldn't we tell Will first?"

But she was already gone.

* * *

He caught up with her in the hallway as she stopped a servant with large frightened eyes. She asked him a question – presumably where Prince Malik was – and Allan started at the sight of the young man's face. It was so livid with terror that both Allan and Djaq took a step back away from it. He answered in Arabic, cringing all the while, and then scurried away like a frightened mouse. Allan could have sworn he heard a whimper of fear as he fled.

"What was that about?"

Djaq was looking after the servant in shock. "I…I just asked him where Malik was. I think something's happened…Quickly!"

The two of them broke into a run, the pillars and tapestries flitting past, their feet pounding on the clay tiles and sending reverberations echoing about their heads. The letter was clenched in Djaq's fist, and a sense of dread welled up in each of them. This was only confirmed when they turned a corner and were met with a gathering of dark, grim faces that had turned to stare at them. Allan's heart was pounding in his throat.

Before them stood an open doorway, in which Prince Malik stood, his back to the hall, looking down at something within the room. Djaq inched forward hesitantly, ignoring the words that were hissed at her as she passed through the crowd. Allan understood none of them, but their venomous tones were enough. Djaq kept her head high, but Allan knew her well enough to notice the slight tremble in her shoulders. Malik turned as they neared, his face shocked and grim and troubled all at once.

Allan couldn't help but cry out in horror when he saw what was left of Ameer-al-Dayir. Mercifully, the corpse lay face-down on the carpets, which spared them all the sight of his face, but the blood that was smeared across the carpet and the walls, as well as the cloying sweet scent of death, was sickening enough.

"But…we just saw him…" Allan muttered, hardly able to believe that a half-hour was enough time to reduce a living, breathing man to a grotesque lump of bloodied flesh.

He tore his eyes away from the object lying some distance away from the body – it had taken him a few seconds to recognise it as a severed hand – and fought down the bile that was rising in his throat. But Djaq spoke calmly, only a slight tremor in her voice betraying her emotions.

"Who did this?"

Malik did not answer, only pointed at a desk against the wall that was half-obscured by the open door. Embedded in its surface was Will's hatchet.

Djaq shook her head. "No…_no_…" and a low noise of dissention rose from the crowd behind her.

Malik said something to her in a low tone of voice that Allan could not overhear.

"What do you _mean_ he is not in his room?" Djaq cried in alarm as Malik took her by the arm and ushered her forward. Malik answered her shortly in Arabic, and she cast one frightened look at Allan as she was pushed forward. All he could do was try to catch hold of her hand, as both of them were swept along by the river of people.

He managed to force his way to her side as they turned into wide hallway that fluttered with the veils and flowing skirts of women, all crying out in alarm at the sight of the armed guards. Djaq was muttering the single syllable of Will's name over and over again, and only stopped when Allan muttered: "What's going _on_?"

"They are blaming Will for Ameer's death. He is not in his bedroom and…" she swallowed hard, turning a resentful, humiliated shade of red. "They think that he might be in _my_ room."

They stopped in front of a familiar looking door, and an uncomfortable but firm Malik gestured for Djaq to open it. This she did, and the entire assembly pushed their way into her messy bedroom. She was scowling with shame, but her eyes lit open a letter lying on her pillow at the same time Malik's did. She snatched for it, but the prince got there first, breaking the seal and running his eyes over its contents. Barking a series of orders at the nearest guards, he hesitated for a moment, and then handed the note to Djaq.

As the guards hurried from the room just as swiftly as they had broken in, Djaq ran her eyes through the words, opened her mouth and screamed.

Allan had never seen anything so terrifying as Djaq's face at that moment. Her eyes were so wide he could see a circle of white all around her iris. Her features were twisted in terror. Her complexion had paled to the colour of ash-wood. Her mouth opened and closed, emitting a series of whimpers. He stepped forward and grabbed the note from her, but of course could not read it. Malik had followed his men out of the room, leaving the two of them by themselves. The inappropriateness of this was entirely forgotten in the intensity of the moment.

"Djaq, you have to read this to me," he told her, shaking the letter before her, only for her to shake her head in horror. Tentatively he placed his hand on the back of her neck, stroking it gently with his thumb as he'd seen Will do, lowering his voice as though trying to coax a wild animal into the open.

"Djaq. I need to know what it says."

The paper shook in her hands, her voice rose occasionally as her panic intensified and then subsided again, but under his touch she translated the letter.

"We have taken Will Scarlett, the murderer of our kinsman, Alevi-al-Dayir. He acted on the orders of King Richard's servant Sir Percy Lean. If there are those who would spare the life of Will Scarlett, then we demand the head of the false envoy who ordered Alevi's death. If Percy is not dead in three days time, then Will Scarlett will be executed."

She gave Allan one frantic, pleading look and then fled behind a partition in the corner of the room. Seconds later, her dress was flung over the top, and he heard the sound of drawers slamming open and shut.

"Djaq, slow down!" he called. "Tell me what's going on. What's Malik doing?"

"The al-Dayir family left for their home-city early this morning before the sun came up, and Will must have been taken with them. Malik is going after them. And so am I!"

She emerged dressed in trousers and a tight waist-coat, tearing the veil impatiently from her face. Every particle of her body seemed to radiate panic and fury and Allan felt he would get burnt if he touched her. In her face he saw the madness that had consumed Robin after Marian's death, though her features still carried a shred of hope that somehow made the visage even more terrible. She was long past reason and rationality now. But he knew he had to do _something_. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he shook her firmly.

"Djaq, listen to me. None of this makes any _sense_. If they kidnapped Will this mornin', then why would they try to frame 'im for Ameer's death a few hours ago? If they think 'e's killed Alevi, then why kidnap 'im instead of murdering 'im in 'is sleep? And if they wanted Sir Percy dead, why not just go burn down 'is house? It just don't fit!"

But Djaq heard none of this, and violently shrugged herself out of his grasp.

"I was with _you_!" she screamed, her fists clenched up at her sides. "I was with _you_ when I should have been with _him_!"

She covered her face with her hands. He could only stand there helplessly. After a few raking sobs she found some measure of composure, and looking up at him again, tears trembling in her eyes but her mouth set in a firm line.

"Take this," she said, and Allan looked down to see that she was pressing a dagger into his hand. "If I am not back before the three days are up, I want you to put this in Sir Percy's heart."

"Djaq-"

"No! When we went to his household, I told you to check that house for ways in and out. You can easily sneak in again. Allan, if you and I were ever friends…if you ever cared for me at all, you will do this for me. It may save Will's life."

She forced it into his hand, and then ran from the room, buckling her sword around her waist as she did so. He looked stupidly down at the dagger as the door banged shut behind her, feeling as though a hurricane had just swept through. What was going _on_ around here?!

Raking his fingers through his hair, he raised his eyes to the ceiling. Djaq's scream – that terrible scream – had jolted something in him that had been lost in the dark pool of his memory, something that had been swimming there just below the surface, something from that night in which he'd stumbled drunkenly through the palace corridors.

The sound of running water…

Everything that had happened since the moment he'd gotten here had been shrouded in secrecy. There had been figures in the shadows and whispered conversations, unlikely expressions of fear and games of manipulation. He knew a con when he saw it, and Alevi's death had succeeded in throwing a net of confusion and suspicion over everyone involved.

_None of you saw anything…_

Allan knew when people were being played, and that was precisely what was going on here. Everyone's attention had been thrown firmly in the wrong direction, what with the hatchet, and Ameer's murder, and now the unlikely kidnapping. Throughout all of it, the main objective of peace had been entirely forgotten. And yet the subtlety with which someone was working spoke of something happening on such a deep level that Allan couldn't even see it yet.

A woman's scream…

They had blamed Ameer, but Ameer had just been hacked to death by…who? Somewhere behind all of this who was the third man, the one that Djaq had called Black Coda, he that was pulling all the strings. Someone was playing with all of them, had been right from the start, and at the centre of this maelstrom was a young carpenter from Locksley.

He closed his eyes. The answer was close now, so close…he could feel it the mists parting slowly in his mind, revealing the mystery at last, but he couldn't force it…he had to wait…but he _couldn't_ wait. Djaq was about to leave on what he suspected was a wild goose chase…Djaq…Djaq screaming…a woman's scream in the darkness…

His eyes popped open. That was it!

For a moment he could only stand as shock and realisation shot through him. Then he bolted for the door. He had to get to Djaq before she left.

It was a race through the cavernous halls of the palace, each corridor turning into another that looked exactly like the one he'd just left. There was no use asking anyone for directions, as he could only gabber at them in English, and without a guide to show him the way he was soon helplessly lost. Finally though, he burst out of the rabbit's warren and into a courtyard filling with horses and the shouts of men. He could just spot the regal head of Malik over the crowd, crying out commands and gesturing with his hands as the horsemen gathered together into some semblance of order.

"Djaq!" he hollered out at the top of his lungs. "_DJAQ!_"

A horse clattered up beside him, and Djaq's startled face looked down at him. He grabbed her knee with one hand and the reins of the horse with the other.

"Djaq," he panted. "You can't go. It's all…don't go…"

The rest of the men were beginning to move out, the hooves of the horses clopping on the flagstones, and Djaq twitched the reins impatiently.

"They're leaving! Quickly, what is it?"

He still couldn't speak properly. "The hallway…Will's not there…"

"What are you talking about?" She pushed away his hand as the men around her surged forward out the gateway. "I have to _go!_

He lunged forward again, grabbing her waist.

"_Please,_ Djaq. 'E's not out there. 'E's in the palace, and I know where."

"_What?_" She looked down at him in disbelief, her eyes flicking back and forth between his face and the horses disappearing out the gates. She was running out of time.

Then he said the words he never thought he'd ever say out loud, not to anyone, least of all her.

"Please trust me."

* * *

_Next week: the mystery begins to unfold. Comments/reviews always appreciated!_


	14. The Question

_Well, after last week's ghastly episode, it seems oddly fitting that this chapter should fall on this particular day. This chapter is the reason I wrote this fic, and it is close to my heart in terms of how I understand Allan and what he really wants from life. I hope it cheers some people up to know that Allan's story doesn't end with the show, and not everyone was as disinterested with him as the BBC writers._

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: The Question**

She'd given him a short, quick nod and dismounted. He'd grabbed her hand and pulled her into the palace.

Some blend of instinct and memory led him back to the corridor where Alevi had died. It was eerily quiet in the midday sun, the gush of water loud in the silence, light and shadow dancing upon the threads of the wall-hangings, and there the two of them stood for a moment, catching their breaths. Then he looked up, ready to explain, and was struck dumb.

She looked determined and fierce and frightened, her hair was dishevelled and her breathing ragged, and there was a wild sort of trust in her eyes, as though he held her very life in her hands and was waiting to see what he'd do with it.

It almost broke him in half. For one lightening-white second he wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her, and demand to know where this ludicrous belief in him came from. How could someone so clever be so _stupid_? The words she had once said to him in Sherwood, so long ago now, resounded in his ears as though she'd just uttered them and he felt as though he would collapse under the absurdity of it, though in hysterical laughter or frustrated tears, he didn't know. Why couldn't he understand this: the most important thing anyone had ever said to him, the key to his whole life, the secret to everything, if only he could _understand_ it.

"Allan, what _is_ it?" she cried, her voice shrill with panic.

He snapped out of his crazed reverie and ushered her to the middle of the corridor, standing her on the spot where Alevi had been found.

"Now – think," he told her, his hands on her shoulders. "Think back to that night. What did you do when you heard the woman scream?"

She closed her eyes.

"I got out of bed and ran to the door. People were moving around outside and I joined them. We all headed to this corridor – and when I got here I saw Alevi on the ground, and you standing over there."

She pointed to the other side of the corridor.

"Right. Good."

He turned her around and then darted over to where he'd been standing on the night.

"I was about here. And I was _first_ here. I saw Alevi, and then all of you arrive from that direction."

She nodded as he pointed down the corridor behind her, her face intense and entirely focused on his words.

"Last of all, Will arrives from the gardens. And remember what 'e said? '_I arrived from the gardens soon after, and by that time a crowd had gathered.'_"

A light was beginning to dawn in Djaq's eyes, and she muttered something in Arabic that could well have been an obscenity.

"We all heard a woman scream," he said, approaching her. "But no one saw 'er. So where'd she go?"

Djaq clutched his arm and breathed in sharply. As one, they turned to the wall and the tapestry that hung there. Together they strode forward and tore it from its hangings. Concealed underneath it was a panel, painted the same colour as the stone that surrounded it, but from which emitted a definite hollow boom when Djaq knocked on it. They exchanged astonished glances and smiles of delight before the reality of their situation sank in again.

"I _knew_ I smelt a woman on 'im," Allan said.

"But it makes no sense," Djaq said, running her hands over the panelling. "Why would she scream only to flee through here?"

"Nothing about any of this makes sense," he replied. "The only question is, how do we get in?"

Djaq answered by driving the hilt of her sword through the brittle wood, following up with a few swift kicks that dismantled the hidden door completely.

"You do realise that there was probably some hidden catch somewhere?"

She shrugged carelessly.

"No time for that," she replied, stepping into the darkness beyond.

"'Ang on, 'ang on!" He grabbed her by the arm. "We can't just go in by ourselves. We need to get some 'elp first."

"_No_ Allan! Everyone we could have trusted has just galloped out the front gates. If Will is down there, I am going now, with or without you."

"Alright," he snapped. "But I'm going to need a weapon. And we're both going to need a light in there."

* * *

A few minutes later, both held oil lamps in trembling hands and stepped into the darkness of the tunnel. They had replaced the tapestry so not to attract attention to the gaping hole in the wall, and around Allan's waist hung a curved scimitar. The shape of it was unusual, but its weight was familiar, and its presence comforting. The soft glow of the lamps created tiny pools of light around the two of them, illuminating the walls of the tunnel. Man-made panelling eventually gave way to rough sandstone, its surface covered in tiny peaks and crevasses. The air grew colder and damper, and the lights fluttered as a soft breeze blew up from somewhere far below.

Allan reached out a hand and ran it over the slick surface of the roughly-hewn walls.

"It's like the caves back in Sherwood," he said. "How come Malik didn't know about this place?"

"Malik does not live in the palace," she replied. "Shh – do you hear that?"

From somewhere far below came the quiet lap of water.

"Of course," Djaq said, her eyes glinting in the lamp-light. "There must a water-source here to feed the fountains and the wells in the palace. These tunnels must have been built by the workers who dug them. They have probably been abandoned for years."

"Till now," Allan repeated grimly.

A few more steps and the tunnel opened out before them, the gush of water growing louder. They were standing in a vast cavern, so vast that its edges were lost in darkness. A great underground lake spread out before them, lit by a radiance that Allan didn't understand.

"Minerals in the rock," Djaq explained, sensing his confusion. "They are phosphorescent."

"They're what now?"

"It means they light up in the dark. Look down there."

Below them on the shore of the water was a low, somewhat ramshackle dock that spanned out into the water.

"No boat," he muttered. "How deep do you think the water is?"

Even in the dim light he could see her pull a face.

"I hate getting wet," she said. "But we might be able to wade across."

"And if not?"

She didn't answer, biting down on her lip instead.

"Djaq, can you even swim?"

"Well, it cannot be _that_ complicated can it?" she snapped. "You just sort of kick your legs around."

He was about to retort that swimming was in fact a _lot_ harder than that, when a distant noise brushed past his ears. It was coming from the water, and as they watched, a small boat slipped into view from across the other side of the lake, a single dark figure inside. For a moment they were still, then scrabbled to find somewhere to hide. There was a small alcove in the rock face a few steps back up the tunnel, and they wedged themselves in, extinguishing the lamps as they went. From below they heard the slosh of water and the soft banging of wood as the boat came to dock. Moments later, footsteps began to ascend the damp steps, and still all Allan could focus on was Djaq's close proximity, pressed up against him.

_Snap out of it you idiot!_

"Ambush?" he breathed in her ear.

"No. See who it is first."

Both held their breaths as the footsteps neared, and for just a moment they caught a glimpse of the man as he passed: lean face, glittering eyes. He was muttering softly to himself in Arabic.

"Nasir," Allan whispered. "Do we go after him?"

They pulled themselves awkwardly out of the crevasse. Djaq hesitated for a moment, then: "No. Like you said, he's not important. He was counting to himself – probably the money he's been paid."

Then she gasped, realising something.

"What is he going to do when he sees that the secret door has been broken into?"

"He'll run," Allan said with certainty. "Men like him always do."

She nodded without another word, and the two of them turned back to the darkness.

"Do think Will is alright?" she asked as they reached the dock.

Her face in the pale gleam of the cave walls seemed so pitifully hopeful that he couldn't bear to tell her what he truly thought.

"Course 'e is. We'll find 'im and break him out, then get back up to the palace in time for dinner. Jump in."

With a little hesitation, and much clinging to the sides of the boat, Djaq managed to sit herself down inside it, relaxing only slightly when Allan took the oars and began to gently pull them through the water. He'd grown up beside a river and had spent more than one afternoon messing about with Tom in the water. He was surprised at how quickly the rhythm of the stroking came back to him. Djaq was sitting upright, every limb tense with impatience and alertness, gazing across his shoulder at the distant shore.

"See anything?"

She shook her head.

"I think there may be a light, but it is dim. Probably only a burning candle."

His gaze dropped to where she her sword across her knee. He didn't envy anyone who got in her way.

"I cannot loose him Allan."

Her whisper was almost a whimper, and he leaned forward to touch her knee.

"You're not going to. We'll get 'im."

She nodded, absorbing his words. A few minutes later the boat made a soft shuffling noise as it ran aground, and the two scrambled ashore, swords drawn. The dark shore was lit only by the eerie glow of the cave walls, and Allan could make out the veins of glinting mineral in the rock. But there was another glow ahead, warmer and less ethereal. They approached cautiously.

Beneath a low rock overhang was spread a straw pallet, a tin cup and a tall tallow candle burning innocently in the darkness. The two of them stared at the sight, speechless. When Allan looked to Djaq for clarification, she just shrugged, and then pointed behind him. Another narrow staircase hewn out of the rock disappeared up into darkness.

"Let's go," she said, bending down to pick up the candle. Djaq took the lead, something he opened his mouth to challenge, before giving up. There was no point when she had that look on her face. Together they made their hesitant way up the narrow passage. In the darkness things were strange: time seemed to slow down, sounds were soft and muted. It could have been a hundred steps they climbed, or only ten before it happened.

There was a noise from above, like the shuffle of skirts, and then a flicker of something in the dark air, as swift as the blink of an eye and so small that Allan thought the candlelight was playing tricks on him.

"Did you see-?"

But Djaq had already turned around to face him, a stunned expression on her face. Thick, hot dread gushed through him, but it was too dark to see if she was wounded.

"God – are you - where?"

In answer, she reached up with a precise gesture and plucked a slender dart out of the side of her neck, her eyes fixed on Allan. He yanked it from her fingers.

"What the hell is it?"

"A dart," she muttered, her fingers pressing down on the small puncture wound on her neck. "Probably full of poison."

"No…no it isn't," he told her. "It's just a-"

But looking at the dart caught between his fingers, as slender as a needle, he had no idea what else it could possibly be. Djaq's hand was on his shoulder, bracing herself. Her teeth were clenched down on her lower lip, her eyes closed in concentration.

"Allan, hush. It may not be serious. I took it out quickly."

"Tell me what to do."

"We need to…keep going."

But she was already swaying on her feet. Stifling a whimper of fear, he took the candle and led her down the stairs. The fact that she put up no resistance was the more terrifying thing of all.

"We need to get back to the palace and get you some help…" His heart convulsed in his chest as they looked out over the water only to find that the boat had gone, leaving only inky blackness and the silvery ripples of the water. "What the…"

Allan backtracked her to the pallet on the shore and thrust the candle into the silt of the ground, accidentally kicking over the cup as Djaq lowered herself down, her hand still on her neck.

"How are you feeling?"

"Just…drowsy. Warm. But don't worry about me. You have to go. Help Will."

For a moment he was back at an inn barn, hearing almost exactly the same words from another insistent, dark-haired woman. Only the name she'd beseeched him with had changed. And he remembered all-too-well how _that_ had turned out.

"No way."

"Do not argue with me."

"If Will were here right now, 'e'd tell me to stay 'ere. He'd never forgive me if I left you."

"And _I_ will never forgive you if you do not," she hissed, looking up at him through half-closed eyes. "Besides, Will is not here, and I-"

"Don't matter. Sorry love, but I'm more scared of 'im than I am of you."

She glared at his tight, nervous smile, but was already weakening.

"You'll be alright though, won't you," he said. It was not a question.

"It depends."

"On what?"

"On whether the woman who shot me intended to kill me or just slow us down."

"Woman?"

"Yes – ahead of me on the stairs. I saw a dress…long hair. It was indistinct, but certainly a woman."

"But…_who_?"

"I suspect Umayma. The woman in Ameer's letter. She's behind all of this somehow."

Conscious that such a woman might still be lurking, he thrust his sword upright in the sand. Not much use against blow darts, or the darkness, but there was little else to be done. Djaq lay down reluctantly, like a cat sliding down into sleep, her eyes blinking languorously.

"If I can slow my heart down, it might slow the poison too," she said.

"Poison." He put two and two together. "Do you think she was the one that killed Alevi?"

"I…" she sighed, her eyes closing. "I am not sure."

"What can I do?"

"Just…wait. There is nothing else to be done."

"How do you feel now?"

"My head feels big. My tongue is dry. A little dizzy."

"Just sounds like a hangover to me," he said, trying to force a joke.

"Hmm, something _you_ wasted no time on getting your first night here."

"I didn't really drink that much, only some sips of wine from a…" His sentence died as the realisation hit him.

"What is it?"

"I am the stupidest man alive."

"What?"

"Someone gave me a goblet of wine that night, something that knocked me out completely."

She gave a rueful little smile. "A woman."

He squirmed under her steady gaze – she was peering into this thoughts and reading what was written as surely as if had been scrawled down on paper.

"Yeah. I'm sorry," he said, then burned in shame. Why was he apologising? It wasn't like she cared who he slept with. But she seemed to understand, and carried on delicately.

"How big a dose do you think you got?"

"I dunno. Not much, but I guess it was enough. Then she took me to a room. I don't really remember much else."

"She was a pillow-talker. She wouldn't have been doing her job properly if you remembered everything you said to her."

"But why'd she come after _me_? I don't know anything!"

"She must be working for someone. You were a new face in the palace. They must have wanted to know who you were."

The darkness and the mysteries that surrounded them suddenly seemed terribly vast and malevolent. He knelt down low beside her.

"What's going _on_ Djaq?"

"I do not know."

He wasn't sure how reached for who first, but in the next instance, their hands were tightly clasped.

"How do you feel now?"

"You are not going to ask that question every two minutes until I pretend to fall asleep, are you?"

She gave a shaky smile, and he ached to see her attempt at humour completely undermined by the fear in her eyes and the strain in her voice.

"You'll probably get over-heated," he told her. "And really thirsty too. That's how it went down for me."

"But you cannot remember being under the effects of the drug. It is hallucinogenic. That means…you are in for a long few hours. I…I might say some things. But do not pay any attention. None of it will be true."

They both knew that she was lying. But he spared her the embarrassment and nodded.

"And if…things go wrong…keep going and find Will. Tell him…"

Her eyes blinked slowly, heavily, and seemed to loose focus.

"Djaq!" he whispered frantically, giving her shoulders a gentle shake. "Djaq!"

But though her eyes were still open, still blinking, she seemed not to hear. Hesitantly, he stretched out next to her, watching her face intently. There seemed to be nothing to do but wait. Minutes passed, one dripping into another until he lost track of time. The candle slowly melted away and still Djaq was quiet, her eyes open but vacant, as though she were looking at something far away, or deep within herself.

"Djaq? Can you hear me?"

She muttered something in Arabic.

Sweat began to trickle down her temples and pool in the hollow of her throat. Allan gnawed on his thumb and rocked back and forth as she tugged at the collar of her shirt. He was afraid to take his eyes off her, and yet was conscious of the darkness around them, growing as the candle melted away. Time passed.

He wasn't sure if he fell asleep or not, and so could not tell whether he dreamt of Will and Djaq, or simply had a mind full of them. He seemed to watch them in the darkness, all the times they'd spent together in Sherwood. He remembered the day Guy had found him; the excruciating hours he'd spent in the dungeons. Guy's mocking words: "Robin Hood was here, did you know? He didn't come to rescue you." But he hadn't expected Robin to come. He had expected Will and Djaq. They were the two who would burst in and release him, Will intent and focused, Djaq crying out some bloody war-cry. It was they that he'd seen in his mind's eye over and over again as he'd waited for rescue.

But they hadn't come for him.

And then watching them in the Holy Land, so in love, so wrapped up in each other, making a world for themselves without him…they had invited him to stay, but that hadn't changed the fact that they'd abandoned him right when he needed them the most. He hadn't known it until now, but he'd been simmering with anger for the last three years of his life: discontentment and disappointment pulling at him from every direction.

Suddenly, just as he felt that he was going into a trance as deep as hers, her eyes fluttered wildly and body convulsed. With a low groan she lurched to her feet in a movement so swift that it caught him entirely by surprise. As he toppled backwards, she staggered down to the water's edge. "Water!" he heard her mutter as she shot past. He grabbed the tin cup with one hand and bolted after her, catching her round the waist before she toppled into the lake.

"Stop!" he whispered to her frantically, his eyes trying and failing to penetrate the darkness, afraid that the noise would call something out.

She struggled out of his grasp and fell to her knees in the water, using one shaking hand to cup a handful of water and splash it onto her face. Feeling sick himself, for no sight on earth could possibly be as terrifying as that of a helpless Djaq, he dipped the cup into the water and pressed it into her hands as she had once done for him. She drank noisily, cup after cup, until she shuddered, the cup hanging loosely from her fingers. Crouching beside her, Allan placed a hand on her back.

"Djaq?"

She was looked out at the water with a stunned expression on her face. To his confusion, she echoed the word he'd just spoken.

"Djaq?"

Then with a cry of heartbreaking joy, she flung herself into the water, propelling herself forward, reaching out for something he could not see. He only just managed to catch her before she was in over her head and drag her backwards. She struggled for a moment and then was still.

"But, didn't you see him?" she said softly, like a child who had just witnessed a favourite toy being broken.

"Who?"

"Djaq!"

It took him another moment to comprehend.

"No…no I didn't, love."

"I have to go – he is calling to me."

"No!"

He grabbed her again as she once again moved into deeper water and held her close, his heart pounding. He hadn't the faintest idea what to do. Allan worked best when someone else was giving orders, regardless of what those orders actually _were_. When he acted on his own he usually ended up waist-deep in trouble. Or in this case, water.

But it seemed that Djaq had calmed. She was leaning into him, and for a few moments he couldn't move, afraid that doing so might set her plunging into the deeper water again. Perhaps it was best if he kept her in the coolness of the lake anyway – her body was like furnace, and he well-remembered his own discomfort when he'd awoken from the drug-induced experience. Carefully he repositioned himself, the water swishing softly about their waists, until her head was nestled against his shoulder.

He glanced about hopelessly, searching for anyone, any_thing_, but the only person who always knew what to do was mumbling incoherently in his arms. What if the dose was too strong? What if it killed her? What if it was poison after all? His grip on her tightened as tears of panic pricked his eyes. He would wring the neck of whoever had done this to her, but first she needed to work through the poison in her system. She had to survive the next few hours. She _had_ to live. Because she and Will were in love and were going to get married, and they were all the happiness he'd ever known in this world, and because if the worst happened, he sensed that somehow he was the one who had brought it all down upon their heads.

He thought of Marian, torn from life so brutally. Robin's love hadn't been enough to save her, but on that black day Allan had been glad that at least Djaq was alive, even if he'd lost her for good. But now, was this how Robin had felt, forced to watch helplessly? Or was Allan no better than Guy after all, destroying that which he loved? Even now the helplessness he imagined in the former fought with the guilt in the latter, for he still could not shake the hideous suspicion that this was _his_ fault. That he had brought this upon her. And if death could take someone like Marian, he could be sure that it would not hesitate to take someone as beloved as Djaq as well.

He floundered for a solution, but he didn't even know what God to pray to. Who was responsible for keeping her soul on earth where it belonged: the Christian God or Allah?

_Both will do,_ he decided, but on beginning his appeal he realised with despair that no God had ever come to his rescue or listened to his cries for help. So instead he held her tighter, one arm clamped around her waist, the other hand tangled in her hair and whispered: "No. You can't have her."

Then, in a deeper, quieter part of himself, he felt the words: _I'd go instead._

And with that, the fear left him. What happened next was out of his hands, for there was nothing more that he could do. No one to help him, no one to blame him. All that was asked of him was that he hold her, and that was all he'd wanted from the start: to feel her breath on his collarbone, to stroke her hair as she slept. It was up to her now, as to whether she stayed or slipped away, and until she decided, he'd keep her with him.

* * *

She muttered against him sometimes, mostly in Arabic, but sometimes in English – soft, loving words that were no doubt meant for Will. Once she beseeched him in the saddest, most helpless tone he'd ever heard from her: "Robin…don't…" and he wondered what she could be referring to. Finally she began to squirm in his arms, struggling against his chest and calling out strange words and names he'd never heard before, her heart beating so fast it was as though it wanted to escape her body. He tried to soothe her with hushed words, and finally fell to humming the odd little Arabic tune that so often came to him at night and whose origin would always be a mystery to him.

"_Ommi_?" he heard her ask in the voice of a child, but he did not understand. After a few moments, she settled again.

Silence fell between them once more. He began remembering things, just as she was. His youth, with a terrifying bear of a father and a frightened deer of a mother, whose eyes had been as wide and soft as Djaq's, though without her light or strength. All those nights with Tom curled up beside him, his brother's tiny hands clenched in his nightshirt.

Growing to a man, learning how to lie and thieve, to gamble and cheat. His first roll in the hay with a dairymaid – he couldn't even remember her name now. Tom abandoning him. That had hurt somewhere deep down inside him, created a hole out of which all hope and trust seemed to flow. And then, that day on the scaffold, knowing that he would die, that Allan-a-Dale would be snuffed out and forgotten as though he never existed. But then – salvation! An arrow slicing through the choking rope, a narrow escape through a barricade of guards, and suddenly he was caught up in something larger than himself: feeding the poor, defying the sheriff, fighting for justice.

And somewhere in that whirlwind of altruism and sacrifice, he'd found himself in the company of the two most alarming individuals he'd ever met: a boy with burning eyes and a woman with a mind like fire. They'd fascinated him. He'd have done anything for them, just to earn their approval, to win their smiles.

He hadn't just wanted them, he'd wanted to _be_ them, and for a while he thought it had been possible. He wanted to keep them close, even as he made clumsy attempts to stop them from getting _too_ close – either to himself or to each other. Because he didn't want to risk breaking them, or loosing them, or loving them too much. Or having to watch them fall in love with each other, even though deep down, right from the beginning, he'd known they would. He'd been destined to loose them. Foolish to come back and bring this on them; selfish to try and reclaim what was already long since over and done with.

And now, he was on the brink of loosing them both all over again. They were just as unfathomable to him now as they were back in Sherwood, and they would leave this world without him ever having figured them out. They were entirely unknowable.

But there was one thing he _had_ to know. He shifted slightly, easing Djaq's weight onto his other arm, wetting his lips. If not here, in this great space of darkness, where nothing seemed to exist beyond the life in his arms and the memories in his head, then nowhere and never.

"Djaq," he whispered. "I need to know something."

He took a shaky breath.

"I know it's too late for us, but…if things had been different…"

He let the words sink into the darkness, not daring to rush.

"If I hadn't been such an idiot…no, that isn't right. If I had been…what you called me that day. If I'd been what you thought I was…"

The memory was as clear before his eyes as though it had just happened yesterday: the twisting agony he had felt, the nervous scratching of his fingernails beneath the bowl of food, the darkness and depth of her eyes as she turned to look at him.

"Do you think…could you have…"

He clenched his eyes shut, steeling himself against the silence and the dark.

"Would you have loved me like you love Will?"

He didn't expect an answer. Her breathing was too regular against his skin to be coming from anyone who wasn't fast asleep. But the words left him like an exorcised demon. All the air in his lungs was released, and for a few moments, he felt as though he'd been freed from some dark and tiny prison cell.

It was over. It was said. It didn't even matter that he would never get an answer; he was free of the question.

His legs ached in the chill of the waters, his arms felt like lead with the effort of holding her up. Her breathing was deep now, he could feel her body rise and fall, and a puff of warmth on his neck with each breath. She seemed cooler too – perhaps now he should take her out of the water. Gradually, he came back to himself. He had not been asleep, nor properly awake. Judging from his exhaustion, several hours had passed, in which he'd felt nothing but Djaq's heartbeat.

Pressing the back of his fingers to Djaq's forehead, he ascertained that the fever had passed. She would sleep now, but she needed to get warm again before she took a chill. Dipping his arm into the water, he hooked it under her knees and lifted her, trudging toward the shore again. He tipped over the cup as he carried her to the pallet, and it was only after he set her down and filled it with water for when she woke, that he realised the oddness of its presence there. A pallet to lie on, a mug to drink from, a candle to light them – it was as if someone had known all this was going to happen.

Unsettled, he knelt down beside her again, smoothing strands of hair out of her flushed face. For a moment he simply looked at her, tracing her features with his fingers. He knew many things; he'd based his life on understanding people and played them accordingly, but for the life of him he still could not fathom why this short, dark-haired mystery believed so firmly that he was a good man.

_Kiss her,_ said the voice. _Kiss her. She'll never know and it might be your last chance._

But the voice had no power over him now. He stood up and pulled the scimitar out of the silt. He wondered whether he should take the stub of candle that was left – he would need it, but he wasn't sure he could bear to leave her in darkness. The dim glow of the cave walls would have to light his way, he decided as he turned around.

Someone was standing on the foot of the staircase.

* * *

_Next week: You finally get some answers as to what's been going on all this time!_


	15. Black Coda

_We're heading toward the end of this fic now: only two more chapters and the epilogue to go. Remember: unless you disregard everything had happened during S3, the reveal here won't make a lot of sense. This fic was always AU._

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Black Coda**

The woman watched passively from the staircase, her eyes glinting above her veil. A name unfurled in Allan's mind.

"Umayma?"

Her eyes blinked in shock. "How do you know my name?"

"Long story."

She shifted uncertainly, and then gestured behind him to Djaq's form. "She will sleep now. She is out of danger."

"She was _in_ danger?" he growled. The woman drew herself upright.

"It was not in my orders to kill her. But different people react differently to certain drugs."

Her speech was heavy with an Arabic accent, far more so than Djaq, so Allan spoke clearly.

"Whose orders?"

She shook her head, and from the folds of her gown she took a small key.

"Take this key to the top of the stairs and unlock the door. You will not be harmed and you will find your answers there."

"I'm not leaving _you_ with Djaq."

"As I said, she will not be harmed. If I wanted her dead, she would be already."

She held out one hand, and by the guttering light of the candle he saw the key. The light also illuminated a more sinister spectacle: her hand was smeared with a copper-brown substance. Blood.

"You're hurt!" he couldn't help but cry as she deposited the key in his hand.

"No," she said shortly. "It is not mine."

She spoke in a flat, gravely voice and he was not sure whether this was because her English was bad, or because she felt no emotion whatsoever. Stress, worry and exhaustion finally flared up in him.

"What the _hell_ is going on here?" he snarled. "Who are you? Where's Will? All this…" he gestured to the bed and the cup. "You…_planned_ this, didn't you? And where's the boat? Did you take that too? Tell me or I rip that veil off your face!"

She raised her hands to hold it firmly in place, and he noticed that the blood stains were smeared halfway up her arms, and that a small bottle was clamped in one delicate fist. In that sight lay the answers – some of them at least.

"You killed Ameer, didn't you," he said. "And you poisoned Alevi."

She shook her head, and noise like a sob or a snarl escaped her.

"Ameer killed Alevi! _He_ killed my love! And so I took the hatchet and…"

Her voice quavered and fell away. Her eyes rolled wildly in her face. She toppled to the ground, and he realised for the first time that she was hysterical. How would Djaq handle a situation like this?

Tentatively he reached out, as Djaq had once done for him in a cold Nottingham alley, and ran his hand down her arm.

"Tell me," he said, and he could almost hear her spirit crumble at the command, a wretched heap of veils and silken folds of cloth.

"It was all because of _this_," she wept, uncurling her fingers to reveal the tiny bottle.

"What is it?"

"Poison. The deadliest poison there ever was. It is scentless, tasteless. My father created it and shared the formula with me. He was a great alchemist and scientist."

She took a deep, heaving breath, speaking with the voice of one who had lost everything.

"When he died – cut down by Crusaders – Alevi found me. He saved me from…from having to…"

Allan nodded, sparing her the shame of having to say it out loud.

"There is nothing I would not have done for him. He gave me everything I wanted, as well as a place to continue my father's work. But…the Holy War…it ate up Alevi's treasury. He was going to loose everything. There was only one person who could help us."

"Ameer," he said quietly. Even though he could only see her eyes, he could sense both her pride and her helplessness.

"I went to him. There is _nothing_ I would not have done for my love."

He quailed slightly under such passion, her eyes trembling in the light, her emotion so raw and naked that he almost felt ashamed to witness it. But she talked on, almost eagerly now, as if to purge herself.

"But Ameer knew who I was. Alevi had spoken of me often, and Ameer wanted something else from me."

She fingered the tiny bottle.

"It seemed easy enough. I would make the poison, and he would sell it to Salah-al-Din and the Sultan's army. All of us would reap the benefits; our country would be free of the infidels, and my Alevi would be safe and happy again."

"But…something went wrong…?"

She gave a short, bitter laugh.

"Peace! _Peace_ is what went wrong! There was no money to be had from a poison that would kill millions when all such enemies were leaving the country. No Sultan's ransom for a weapon with no one to wield it against. Ameer needed war."

Allan took up the story as she lapsed into silence.

"Ameer gave over the signing of the treaty to Alevi….and by murdering him he could restart the conflict. Is that right?"

She nodded.

"Alevi knew too much. He wanted wealth and power, fortune and glory. Alevi just didn't know when to stop wanting."

Well, Allan knew _that_ feeling.

"I thought it was over. They told me I could go home, back to my love. But they wanted just one more thing done first."

"_They?_"

She looked up at him, a strange look this time, as if to gauge how much Allan really knew.

"There is another man who worked with Ameer. Worked _behind_ him. All this was of his making. His plan."

"Black Coda," Allan said, and she blinked in surprise before giving another short, bitter laugh.

"Yes, that is a good name for him. He wanted to know more about you. They told me to find you, to get some answers. But before that, I had to pour the poison into the goblet that had five rubies embedded on the cup."

She began to shake, her voice breaking again.

"Nasir was with me, that miserable rat. I could not go to Alevi, I could not see what he was doing, what he was _drinking_. Nasir took me to you…and when you were done I crept away. I found Alevi in the corridor. I ran to him. I had one, maybe two seconds. And then he died."

Allan couldn't breath.

"Ameer tricked me into killing him. The only thing I loved. I took the axe…I made him pay."

Suddenly she turned on Allan, her eyes flashing fiercely, and gave him a shove.

"_You_! You are in this more deeply than you know. Take the key, climb the stairs and leave me _be_."

He stood, feeling shaky and sick.

"Djaq…"

"She will come to no harm. Not from me."

But Allan wasn't prepared to take the word of a woman elbow-deep in blood. She was unconsciously fingering the bottle of poison, and he wasn't going to leave her with _that_ either.

He braced himself, and then pounced. Grabbing her wrist he yanked the bottle out of her grasp and twisted her arm behind her. It was hard going for a while as he struggled to negotiate bottle, wrist and the sash around her waist that served as the only available rope, but the woman was as weak as a bird, and stopped her fighting after a while, pitifully submitting to Allan tying her up.

"Sorry about this," he muttered, hoisting her away from both the shore and the sleeping form of Djaq. As he sat her upright against the rocks, slipping the bottle into his pocket, he apologised again. She simply watched him.

"Go up the stairs, and unlock the door. End all of this."

He left her there and returned to Djaq, her words thrumming in his ears. Djaq was still sleeping, her breath stirring the hair across her cheek. He looked at her for a moment, then turned and began the dark climb, his sword in one hand, the key in the other, the way lit by the gleam of the rock-face, hoping madly that it would be Will that he found behind the door at the top, but fearing it was some darker reckoning.

Only the odd dream-like sense of reality held his fear in check, as though he were some distant observer to a man who had lived the life of Allan-a-Dale and was now grasping in the dark toward some new catastrophe. How many times could he keep doing this before it finally got him killed?

His hand shook a little, but he did not hesitate as he inserted the key in the lock and pushed the door open. Inside a small candlelit chamber a man sat at a small table, playing with a strand of yellow silk and an emerald ring between his fingers.

"Hello Allan."

He knew that voice, had expected it somehow, had known deep inside that there could only ever be one person behind these dark games. The black-clad man slowly raised his head, taking him in. Allan's heart dropped like a stone as Guy of Gisbourne's familiar smirk reached for him across the darkened room.


	16. The Man in the Box

**The Man in the Box**

For a moment the two men simply stared at each other; Allan in shock, Guy in wry speculation. He couldn't feel anything. It was too unreal, as though he'd the door had opened into the part of his mind that held his darkest nightmares. And yet the longer he stared, the clearer the visage before him became.

"No hello?" Guy eventually prompted.

"This is impossible."

Guy's smirk widened, twisting up the side of his face.

"What are…what are _you_ doin' here?" Allan finally gasped, grappling for some sense.

Guy spread his hands, the scrap of silk falling down to the tabletop. The emerald ring was wedged over his little finger. "Just business as usual."

"But…how?"

The menacing grin was enough to turn Allan's blood to ice.

"That's a long story. Why don't you come and have a drink?"

"_How did you get here?_"

"The same way as you I expect. On a boat."

"That's not what I meant."

Guy leaned back, his eyes turned to the ceiling. The man's hair was long and straggly, his face unshaven, and that twisted little smile on his face was making Allan's skin crawl. His eyes glinted madly like the shine of coins in the dim light; blood-shot and red-rimmed. Only his voice sounded the same: still and deep and cool, like the flow of water over smooth rocks.

"It was you…" Allan breathed. The memory of the small sandy graveyard, the red flowers on Marian's grave, the silhouette of a man up on the sand-bank suddenly swelled up in his mind. "It was _you_ I saw in the graveyard."

Guy was still looking at the ring, curling it between his fingers with a dark look on his face.

"Did he give this to her? Her engagement ring?"

It was said in such a tone that Allan knew answering in the affirmative would not be good for his health. Guy shrugged off Allan's silence, eyes still on the ring.

"Do you know who Nemesis is, Allan?"

He shook his head wordlessly.

"Nemesis was a god of the Greeks. A dark god who lay in wait for those who had committed unspeakable crimes and punished them accordingly. No matter how far or fast a criminal ran, Nemesis would always catch up with them. There was no escape."

Allan barely understood him. Trying to gather his scattered wits, he took a shaky breath, remembering why he was here.

"Where's Will?"

Guy seemed vaguely interested at his words, and jerked his head at the door behind the table.

"In there. Tied up. The door's locked so I wouldn't bother trying to get in."

There was a bottle and two cups on the tabletop, and Guy carefully poured some dark wine into both of them, pushing the cup toward Allan and taking the other for himself.

"You're a fool if you think I'm going to drink that," Allan said.

"It's harmless," Guy returned. "Just spiced wine. Watch."

He threw back his head and tipped the drink down his throat, throwing the empty cup down on the table afterwards.

"See? It's fine. And you look like you could use a drink."

Allan didn't care how bedraggled or tired the last few hours had left him looking, but the cold chill of the water had seeped into his clothing, and the wine looked enough to ease his nerves. Trying not to shake too much, he tentatively lowered himself into the chair opposite Guy, picked up the cup and raised it to his mouth, watching over the rim as Guy went back to playing with the ring and the silk. After a few sips, he returned the cup to the table, weighing up his chances for survival.

"How?" was all he managed.

Guy looked him up and down.

"It started on the day we arrived here from England, over two years ago now," he said, after a lengthy pause. "The sheriff and I, here to assassinate King Richard the Lionheart. The sheriff had agents among the Saracens. One of them was a man called Nasir. Slimy little man, he reminded me of you. You never knew it, but it was _him_ you had to thank for your little stint out in the desert sun.

"When we returned home, Nasir came with us. Said that he'd be helpful to us back in England. He wasn't – at least, not until the sheriff died. Then he brought me back here – told me he had contacts, people who could help men like us make a living in the world. He introduced me to a man called Ameer."

The pieces began to fit into place.

"Let me guess," Allan said. "Ameer had a poison 'e wanted to market to Saladin. But it wouldn't fetch as fair a price during peace time as it would durin' war. And so you were commissioned to make that 'appen."

Guy gave a wry smile. "You have been busy, haven't you?"

"Why would you do that? The war was _over_. Peace was declared. There was nothin' to be gained from makin' more conflict."

The moment he said it, looking at Guy's flat eyes, he realised that this hardly the point.

"I am a man of war," Guy said. "There is no place for me in times of peace."

There was silence for a moment as Guy let this sink it. Then:

"The plan was simple enough. The woman would slip poison into Alevi's goblet. Alevi would die a few hours later. The al-Dayir family was told to leave in the night – threatened with dire consequences if they didn't comply. And since Lady Safiyah's disappearance would take place on the same night, they would be blamed for her kidnapping. The note left in her wake would threaten her imminent execution if Sir Lean were not killed in her stead. All we had to do was sit back and watch as the peace negotiations tore themselves apart."

"What changed?"

Guy looked him up and down.

"You did of course. I saw you in the cemetery. At…at her grave. And so I changed the plan."

Allan blinked.

"W-why?"

Another twisted smile crossed the man's face. Allan realised with another shiver that the man sitting opposite him was quite, quite mad.

"Can't you _guess_? I took the hatchet from the boy's room. I was waiting in the secret passageway, having sent a fake message to Alevi from his woman. He wanted her _back_, you see. Had been pestering his uncle about it – blackmailing him, the fool. I wasn't expecting her to show up there of course; she must have been on her way back _here_ when she ran into Alevi. Her scream brought everyone running. But Alevi had already collapsed. I simply dealt the finishing blows and took the woman with me, back down here to the pit before anyone else arrived."

He grinned in deranged triumph.

"Will Scarlett has been blamed for the death of Lord Alevi. Prince Malik is off in search of the al-Dayirs across the desert. When they don't find him there, how much longer do you think they'll search for a _traitor_? They all believed he killed Alevi, and if what I heard is true, Ameer as well."

"Not everyone," Allan snapped. "Your messin' around with that hatchet cost you – Djaq could tell the wounds were made _after_ Alevi died. She's told the whole palace." He leaned back and crossed his arms. "She saw straight through it."

"Ah yes. _She_. There's always a woman at the back of everything, isn't there."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I believe this is yours," Guy said, pushing the shred of silk across the table with a crooked smile on his face. "I never took you for the sentimental type."

Allan snatched the material back. "You don't know me."

"I know more than you think. I know that that piece of silk has been carried around in your pocket for the last two years, and I know that it's torn from a dress that was once worn by the Saracen noblewoman sleeping in a pallet in the cave beneath us."

"Umayma told you that," Allan muttered.

"Is that her name? I confess, I forget it most of the time. She's very handy in the art of deceit…though I suppose all women are."

Guy reached down and hefted a bag that clinked with coins on the tabletop.

"This is my payment for my services here. I'm giving it to you. Along with the unconscious woman downstairs."

Allan could only stare.

"You heard me. I know how you feel about her. The pillow-talker tells me you were very vocal on the subject. But you'll need money to provide for her. And of course, her fiancée will have to be taken care of, which he will be the moment you walk back out that door."

Allan shook his head. "What are…_what__?!_"

"No one will look too long and hard for the boy, no matter what your Saracen friend said about head wounds. He's as good as dead anyway."

"She won't leave 'im 'ere."

"_She_ is currently drugged, and so will put up no resistance whatsoever when you put her in the boat that has been concealed behind the rock outcropping and take her away. You could be in Acre with her by next week, on a ship chartered for England. You can tell her anything you like about the boy – that you saw his body. That there was nothing you could do to save him. She'll believe you. Hard to believe, given your history, but she will."

"You're insane."

"No – _you_ are if you don't take me up on my offer."

He leaned forward, his dark voice as silky as the cloth between Allan's fingertips.

"You deserve this."

In the space of a moment the walls of the room blurred and disappeared, and Allan was once more outside Locksley Manor, sitting next to Djaq in the darkness as Will walked away into the night. _You deserve this_. To be a participant to love, and no longer just a witness to it.

"And what if I refuse?"

"You won't refuse. Because if you do, I won't give you this."

From his leather jerkin he pulled out a tiny vial, pulled off the top with his teeth and took a sip.

"What's that?" Allan asked, even though he already knew.

"The antidote to the poison we've just swallowed. You get it when you leave. If not, I break it. Save one, or have the other. Live with one, or die with neither. Don't you see what I've done for you? I'm _giving_ you everything you want, no strings attached. It's all yours."

"And why the hell would you do that for _me_?"

Guy opened his mouth to answer, then simply closed it and smiled again. "That's complicated."

Allan shuddered, taken back to that day in the torture chamber long ago. He could feel every welt and bruise as though he'd just been dealt them; hear the sound of Guy's dark, rich voice making him promises with devastating logic. Money, safety, and a secret chance to take Robin down a peg or two – it could all be his. Now he felt as vulnerable as if he were once more lashed to that pole, stripped half-naked and dowsed in water.

"Take the money, take the woman, and live your life."

Allan closed his eyes and braced himself for the onset of burning temptation, of the kind he wouldn't be able to resist.

Nothing happened.

There was no bite of desire, no wheedly voice, no soul-sickening grasp at opportunity. Just a great stillness as he opened his eyes and gazed at the pitiful wreck that was Guy of Gisbourne, who saw life as a small, dried-up walnut, and who was desperately, constantly, _pointlessly_ trying to cram the rest of the world and all its people into it.

He looked at the emerald ring clenched in Guy's fist, and the worn, faded scrap of silk in his own.

"I never had a chance, never, not in all my life," Guy whispered, leaning forward, watching him intently, as though all the world hinged on Allan's answer. "But you…you could still have it all. You just have to be man enough to take it. We were…we were…fri…" He could not even say the word. "This is what you want. This is how things are meant to turn out for you."

Allan knew all too well how things were _meant_ to turn out. He had no doubt in his mind how things _should_ be run. The truth was, life was not supposed to be like this. Life was supposed to be long, happy and fulfilling. In a proper life he would be respected and beloved. In a proper world, there would be no war or hangings or hoards of hungry children. Marian would be at home in Locksley and not in a sandy grave. Tom would have been loyal and true. Will and Djaq would have never left him. There would have been no need for Allan to turn to Guy of Gisbourne to fill his stomach and line his purse. He would have bread on his table and money in his purse and Djaq in his arms every night.

But life wasn't like that.

He had found the answer to his own question, and now all that remained was to get Will and Djaq out of here alive, to save them from the terrible mistake he'd made so long ago, and the disaster that he had wrought upon them in drawing the attention of this broken man, who destroyed everything he touched.

Allan took a deep breath. A wild, giddy sort of euphoria had come over him which was probably brought on by the fact that he was being asked to do what he did best. Death was reaching out for him, but before he was taken, he was going to _win_ this final round.

He looked over the man opposite him carefully. Guy was clearly loosing it, his eyes glassy, his shoulders slumped over like he'd been beaten. He was quite possibly drugged himself. Whether this would make this easier or not was difficult to say. But the man was slipping, and there was only a limited amount of time to say what needed to be said, to persuade him around to an alternative point of view.

Allan took a deep breath, arranged the cards in his head and dealt the first hand.

"No."

Guy cocked his head. "No?"

"No deal."

A disbelieving little chuckle escaped the man in black. "I don't believe you."

"Don't then. I guess it'll have to be my dead body that'll convince you." He folded his arms and leaned back. "How long do you think it'll take?"

Guy looked at him askance, clearly not expecting this.

"Oh I see," Allan said. "You think this is going to go down like last time. You say a few words, wave around a few bribes and promises, and I'll obey like an eager puppy. Well, I don't 'ave the faintest idea what you're tryin' to pull off here, but you can keep your silver this time. All I want is the key to that door. I wouldn't say no to the antidote that's in your pocket either, but I guess that's up to you."

"You can't bluff your way out of this one, Allan."

He shrugged carelessly. "Not trying to mate. I've made up my mind. And since I'm dead anyway, I may as well make a full confession."

He gestured to the ring in Guy's hand.

"That _is_ Marian's ring," he told him. "Robin gave it to her when he proposed to her in Sherwood. She 'ad it with her when you rescued 'er from that tree. Which, as I'm sure you've guessed by now, was all a ruse."

Guy's fist had clenched around the ring, so tight that his knuckles were white.

"She was a good wee actress, I'll give 'er that. She really looked scared out of 'er wits when Robin 'ad 'er in that tree. Mind you, I suspect the whole thing was 'er idea."

"Shut up."

"I'm a dead man walking, Giz. I can say whatever the hell I like. And it's time you learnt the truth."

Guy gave a low grow, but Allan pressed on. Death was imminent, so why should he fear Guy anymore?

"Robin and Marian were working together, right from the start. Any information she got from you she passed onto 'im."

"No, she was-"

"She was playing you. As the Night-Watchman, as a spy, as Robin Hood's lover."

Guy made an incomprehensible sound of despair.

"Oh, and I almost forgot: she wasn't in a convent either after her father died. We made all that up. She was in the forest with Robin and the rest of the outlaws."

With a feral snarl, Guy jerked upright and backhanded him across the face. The effort was weak, but the slap still stung, and Allan blinked rapidly for a few moments until its bite faded.

"Nothing personal mate – just business as usual. Just like _I_ was business when you turned me traitor. But 'ey – that was my choice. I saw an opportunity and I took it. _You_ had a choice too, though you pretend you don't, and you _chose_ to work with the sheriff."

"Shut-"

"No _you_ shut up!" Allan banged his fist down on the table, suddenly furious. "You 'elped me ruin my life, and now you're damn well going to listen to me! _Everything's _a choice. Everything we do. But it's not somethin' you decide once and for all. You make choices every second of your life. And sometimes you stuff up. Well, you 'ad thousands of chances – thousands! You made your choice. And I've made mine."

He leaned forward onto the table, as if arranging a business deal.

"Now, what we have to discuss is what's going to 'appen when I keel over. I guess there's nothing stopping you from killin' more innocent people, but I'd prefer it if Will wasn't one of 'em. 'E's no threat to you, and it would be nice if my noble sacrifice wasn't in vain. Who knows? Maybe 'e'll name one of 'is kids after me. But what I'm really interested in Guy, is what _you're_ going to do. After you've broken all your toys. Sit 'ere in the dark with a bag of money you don't want?"

Guy hunched over further, and Allan's breath caught in his throat. It was working…but now he had to play it carefully. His voice became softer, more thoughtful.

"I mean, it's what you said. A man of war. It's 'ard to believe really, but you've single-handedly brought an entire country back to the brink of war. I guess it's not enough that you kill the woman you love. Not enough that you abandoned your own son. All those peasants that met the sharp end of your sword. No – you have to be responsible for _thousands_ more lives lost."

Allan gave a derisive little laugh.

"At least when you answered to the sheriff you 'ad a reason for it. Now though…you don't even _want_ the blood-money that you've earned. You don't even know _who_ you are."

Guy looked up at him and glared, loathing all but dripping from his eyes. "I'm going to enjoy watching you die."

"Yeah well, you _would_ wouldn't you." He took a quick breath. His next words could very well kill him, not by the poison but by sword. "But I should thank you really for letting me end it this way. You've given me a choice. I get to die for my friends, and I can't think of a better way to go. And just for the record, if I could go back to that dungeon cell, I would tell you to take your silver and shove it up your ass. Perhaps if you don't want it, I could give Will this money. 'E'll need it to get himself and Djaq out of 'ere safely. Umayma too. The state she's in, she'll probably give herself up for the murder you made her commit unless someone 'elps her out."

"You…you actually don't _want_ what I'm offering you?"

"Cause I do! But I'm not takin' it. I'm just trying to clean up the mess you've made. It's the least I can do really."

Allan was edging close now, so very close.

"You're going to die," Guy told him, looking at him as though he'd never seen him before.

"Fine. I'd die for them. But you'll live on. And for what? What are you living for Guy?"

"Don't play philosopher with me!" snapped Guy. "You – a common-born thief who switches sides so often till there's nobody left to want you! I'm giving you the chance to walk away from all that, and you're treating this like a game!"

"Yeah sure, all I know is that we're sitting in a shoddy little room with a ring and a piece of cloth. It's pathetic. And what will you do after this? An assassin for hire? A common mercenary? Then you'll die in some dark little alleyway, cold and alone."

He leaned back and inspected his fingernails. This air of assumed nonchalance was essential, to tease out one final strain of curiosity that the man opposite him might have; one last spark of interest. There was only one door left open to him, one that a man as selfish as Guy couldn't even _conceive_; one that could save them all, if only Allan could convince him to walk through it.

He hoped Guy couldn't hear the pounding of his own heart. He was feeling foggy-headed too, and with a painful lurch of his heart he wondered if it was the poison beginning to work on him. But it couldn't be over yet…not while Will was still in danger. Guy was muttering under his breath, and Allan could only just make out the word "Marian."

"You said you'd enjoy watching me die," Allan said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. "You didn't enjoy watching Marian die though, did you. She must have said something – _done_ something pretty awful to make you do that."

Guy was silent, his breathing heavy. Allan held his breath. "Well?"

"Marian made her choice. She was a traitor."

"Yeah, well so was I. The difference is, my friends forgave me. You on the other hand…"

He let the words settle into the silence.

"It'll take a lot to forgive you for what you've done. I mean, there's only one way out of this, but…you probably don't want to hear it."

Guy was quiet. Allan counted down in his head. _Three, two, one…_

"What way?"

"The only way. Give yourself up."

Guy snorted, but Allan pressed on.

"If you don't confess, then Will will be 'eld responsible for Alevi and Ameer's death."

"Why should I care about that?"

"You shouldn't I guess. I just wonder though…how much blood you'll have on your hands before all this is over."

Time for the final roll of the dice.

"The thing is…about Marian. Sure, she lied to you. But I saw 'er at the castle and in the forest. I was probably the only one who really saw both sides to 'er. And she cared about you. I think…she wanted to save you. But you wanted power too much. Well, you've got _all_ the power now – over me, over Will, over two entire countries."

He couldn't see Guy's face.

"You can't live with peace…but you can _die_ for it. End all this. It might be enough…to save yourself. They say the sheriff begged for his life before he died, but you – you were never a coward. This is your last choice. Go and meet this Nemesis bloke…take your own way out. One last 'screw you' to all the world."

He was so close…_so close_ now…his next words might well kill him, and Will and Djaq along with it.

"I think…it's what _she_ would have wanted."

It was a truth, wrapped in lies, but a truth nonetheless. Guy was so close to the edge already…could this be the one thing that broke him entirely?

Moments ticked by. Nothing moved, and Allan felt that he would be caught in the moment between consideration and decision forever. All he had to do was get Will out of here…he would take care of Djaq…they could make their escape…Already he felt exhausted. His eyelids were drooping, the shadows in the corners seemed to be filling up. He wanted to sleep so badly, but just a few more minutes were needed to see this through. Should he say something more? He thought not. It was up to Guy now.

The seconds fell away and the silence deepened until Allan was sure his heartbeat could be heard by Will in the next room. Strange that a tiny little room could hold the fate of thousands of lives.

And then, Guy looked up. Allan saw his face and knew he had won.

"Where's the key?"

Guy shook his bedraggled head. "It's not locked."

Defeated and exhausted, Guy slumped down into his chair as Allan got to his feet and staggered toward the door behind him. As he'd said, the door was not locked, and Allan nearly tripped over a chair positioned directly behind it. On it sat a bound and blindfolded Will Scarlett.

"S'all right, it's over mate," he mumbled, pulling the gag from Will's mouth and the blindfold from his eyes. Will blinked and looked up at Allan with wide, disbelieving eyes as he was untied. His mouth opened and closed as if he was going to say something, but was apparently rendered speechless.

"Allan…" he finally managed, then as his eyes cleared: "Where's Djaq?"

"Outside. She's alright."

Allan's hands shook as he grappled with the ropes, but once the cords that bound his wrists were undone, it was an easy enough task for Will to deal with the rope around his ankles, coiling up the rope and darting out of the room to where Guy was still sitting. The man put up no resistance as Will kicked away his sword and twisted his arms behind his back.

"Help me!" he called back to Allan, and Allan – who had wearily sat down on the vacant chair – followed him in and helped Will bind the man.

"The poison…" Allan tried to say, feeling light-headed.

"Guy of Gisbourne," Will spat, not having heard. "I heard his voice when I was kidnapped, but I couldn't believe it…look at him!"

It was indeed a pitiful sight. Guy couldn't even muster up the barest dregs of hatred, simply watched them listlessly.

Will still seemed stricken: "Where are we? How do we get him out of here? Where did you say Djaq was?"

But Allan was swaying unsteadily on his feet, and all he could do was raise a shaky finger at the door leading down the staircase.

There was a clattering at the door as it lurched open and they looked up to see a wild-eyed Djaq leaning on the doorway, her sword dangling from her hand. She was barely strong enough to carry it, much less use it properly. Instantly, Will pushed past Allan and rushed to her, catching her up in his arms and kissing her like he'd only just invented it.

"Hey…guys…" Allan tried to call out to them. He felt as though the floor was rising up to meet him, and he doubted he possessed the ability to search Guy's clothing for the tiny vial. "Guys…some help…"

He swayed unsteadily and grabbed hold of the tabletop to keep himself from toppling over. He had to form the words properly, had to tell them about what he'd drunk…but everything was swimming before his eyes, and with one last dizzying swirl he felt himself hit the stone ground.

Somewhere far away he heard Djaq cry out. But he remembered something as the great weariness overtook him, the bargain he'd made in the watery darkness of the cavern. His life for hers. Someone had been listening after all.

It was a deal.

* * *

_It's odd, I actually write this long before the show had Guy reach some semblance of redemption, and this was my version of how a man like him might reach some sort of "release", as well as what his confrontation with his ex-right hand man might be like. (I still can't believe that there was no real acknowledgement of familiarity between Guy and Allan in canon. Very odd). Anyway, I realise that my treatment of Guy is a little harsher than what we saw on the show, but this is AU. For **this **Guy, there was no Meg, no Archer, no real sign of peace on the horizon...until now._

_Next week: all fates are revealed._


	17. Together

_Well guys, I posted the first chapter of this story on the same day that the first episode of Robin Hood's season three aired on BBC television, and now, sixteen weeks later, I come to the close of this particular story. Technically, there is still an epilogue to come, but that will be told from Djaq's point of view, and so this, for all intents and purposes, is the end of Allan's narrative. _

_In regards to Guy, I wanted to give him a dignified end, whilst still making him pay for his (numerous) crimes. Although canon's version of Guy's redemption arc was one of the few worthwhile things in S3, this entire fic was written before it even aired, and so I hope that my treatment of him here doesn't come across as too harsh. He's paying for his crimes, but as Allan has already pointed out to him - he gets to do so on his own terms. _

_I began this story as a sort of "bookend" to my previous multi-chapter story "A Stranger from the East", which details Djaq's past, arrival in England, and burgeoning friendship with Will Scarlett and Allan-a-Dale, and this fic was written with the sole intention of patching up that unique bond between the three of them in the wake of Allan's betrayal, Will and Djaq's union, and two years of unfinished business. If you've enjoyed my endeavours, then I consider that an added bonus to writing about three characters I adore, and thank you to those who left reviews or sent PMs. They always put a smile on my face._

_I don't think I've ever been as attached to any three fictional characters as I have been to Will, Djaq and Allan, and so (given what the show's writers decided to do with them) it's been a huge comfort to take refuge in fan-fiction, where I can develop their personalities, put them on adventures, and explore the depths of their friendship to my heart's content. There was something special about these three, and I doubt I'll ever be able to put my finger on what it was, but I hope I've done it justice._

_Alright, I won't put it off any longer. Here's the final chapter._

* * *

**Together**

Prince Malik looked solemn as they told him their story, finally running a hand through his pomaded hair and shaking his head.

"If I hadn't already heard all this from the man sitting in the prison cell below, I'm not sure I would have believed it."

Will shrugged. Djaq crossed her arms and glared.

"Very well!" Malik cried, his hands raised in defence. "I didn't say that I did _not_ believe you. Just that it was _hard_ to believe. We've intercepted a messenger commissioned by Ameer just before his death and found a letter addressed to Salah-al-Din."

He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "I won't read you all the details, but it's incriminating enough. 'Whoever has the most lethal weapon makes the peace – this could be a war without bloodshed, in which you and I alone, hiding in the shadows, could control.' And so on."

Djaq gave a little cry of disgust.

"I _never_ liked that man. We should have locked him in a closet years ago."

Malik blinked. "Ah…yes. Then there is the testimony of the al-Dayir family. We caught up with them a few hours after they left, and they told us that Ameer had ordered them to leave – _threatened_ them actually. The way they left in the night – and the note left behind – was clearly meant to be a distraction. You are both very lucky that your friend saw through it."

Will and Djaq exchanged glances.

"We know," Djaq said.

"And what about Sir Percy Lean?" Will asked.

Malik gave a dry little chuckle.

"Long gone, taking the Crusaders with him. Well, that is one way to get rid of them I suppose. I always believed him a coward."

"But…the peace treaty…" Will trailed off.

There was no chance of that now. Malik looked at the two of them soberly. "I am sorry. I know how hard the two of you worked for it. But there will be other chances. More negotiations. I will see to that."

The couple nodded, knowing but not saying that they weren't going to be around to see them.

"The process is quite straightforward from here on out. The prisoner confessed, and so…" He looked at them wryly.

"I want to see him," Djaq said suddenly, causing the two men to jump.

"Safiyah…you cannot just go into a cell…"

"Why not?" she retorted. "He's chained up, is he not?"

"Well yes, but-"

"It is down here, isn't it? Thank you."

She set off down the narrow staircase that led down into the dungeons.

"Djaq, are you sure about this?" Will asked, hurrying to catch up to her, dreading what she was going to do. It wasn't like her to be malicious, and yet what else could she have to say to the man?

"Oh yes," she replied. "There's something I have to tell him. You don't have to come."

He spluttered incoherently.

"What? I'm never letting you out of my sight again!"

She turned and gave a small smile, then leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. "That is going to get very annoying, my love."

Before them stood the sealed and guarded prison door. "Let me in please," she ordered the guard. "But keep the door open. Will, you wait out here."

He sighed, but knew better than to argue. He had been so relieved to find her safe and well, so remorseful for his actions the night before, that both knew that he would be her willing slave for at least another three years. He watched as she stepped inside the cell.

Guy of Gisbourne sat with manacles fastened to his wrists and ankles. Will gave a little shudder. He'd forgotten just how large a man Guy of Gisbourne was. But Djaq was unfazed, taking a seat opposite him on the bunk against the wall, looking the man directly in the eye.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked. He looked up at her with eyes that were already dead and grunted softly.

"Pepper," he muttered.

"Ouch," she returned, and then cleared her throat.

"I know everything that you did. I just came to tell you…thank you. Thank you for making this decision."

Guy's eyes darted up suspiciously.

"Thank you for ending it this way…before it was too late."

His eyes flickered down again and the chains clinked as he shifted.

"Will told me some of what happened between yourself and Allan. The choice you made."

There was a lengthy pause. But then, a quiet question:

"Do you _love_ him?"

Djaq straightened. "Yes. Very much."

Will wasn't sure whether she was referring to himself or Allan, but on brief reflection, realised that it didn't matter.

"Do you know what will happen to you?" Djaq asked, just as quietly.

More silence. Then:

"No."

"Criminals are usually stoned to death in this country. But I have spoken with court officials. That will not be your fate. It…they will use the sword. It will be a quick death. Clean."

A great sigh fell through Guy, so deep that Will could hear it from the doorway. He didn't thank her, but Will doubted that she'd expected him to. Tentatively Djaq reached out and touched one of his hands, simply brushing it briefly with her fingertips before withdrawing.

Will was completely still, watching the sight of the tiny Saracen woman offering what comfort she could to the man who had almost destroyed her life. Just when he felt he'd reached the height of his love for her, she'd always do something to make him fall even deeper.

* * *

Allan was dreaming the past. He remembered standing in that dungeon cell, insisting that he was Tom, taking Djaq's story of long-dead her brother and making it his own. He remembered that day at the Trip so clearly, the day he'd been found out, humiliated, discarded. The painful burn as his tag was torn from around his neck. The shame of it all. He remembered how being Guy's spy and dogsbody had made him feel bigger and smaller at the same time. Most of all he remembered Djaq's face, the quiet certainty with which she'd said those words. She'd been pleading with him, and he had had to get away from her before those dark eyes forced him to confess.

He remembered Will…Will who loved Djaq so dearly, who had probably done so somewhere deep inside him from the first second he saw her, regardless of the fact that he had thought she was a boy. Why had a poor carpenter from Locksley come to a foreign country, forsaking his family and friends and throwing himself into high politics in order to fight a battle that was never really his to fight? Because he had loved Djaq with every particle of his body and soul. Allan might be a good man…but Will was a better one. He deserved the happiness he'd found with her.

Slowly he opened his eyes. He was in a room with a high ceiling and an open window. He could feel the familiar heat of the desert across his body, but an added warmth near his left hand made him raise his head to investigate. Djaq was sitting on a chair beside him, folded arms on the bed, her head resting atop them. She was fast asleep.

He raised his hand and touched her hair, smiling a little. Usually it was the physician who watched the sleeping invalid, not the other way around. Something moved on the other side of the bed, and he shifted his gaze to find that Will was seated on his right, watching him. He whipped his hand back quickly, as though Djaq's head had suddenly caught fire.

"Er – hey," he croaked.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine…" he said, then jumped in surprise. "Wait, why am I fine? I got poisoned!"

Will shook his head, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"It was just wine. Not poison at all."

"Oh…but then how come I…?"

"You fainted of exhaustion and then knocked yourself out on the side of the table."

"Ah."

He settled back on the pillow, a thousand more questions whirling through his head. He finally decided on: "Where's Guy?"

"In a prison cell. He came quietly. He confessed to Prince Malik after he rode in this afternoon. You've been sleeping for a while – almost all day."

"What's going to happen to him?"

Will looked up with hooded eyes.

"Execution. For murder, treason and conspiracy against the crown."

Allan didn't react. He wasn't sure how to feel. This was what he had wanted, wasn't it? It's what he'd talked the man into. But the thought of it held no triumph whatsoever.

"Guy of Gisbourne," Will said with a dry laugh. "It's hard to believe really."

Allan glanced up. There was something indicative in Will's voice, as though a question were buried in his words.

"Couldn't believe it myself when I first saw him," he answered carefully.

"I don't just mean that he was _here_," Will said. "I mean all that he did – taking my hatchet, kidnapping me, leaving that note…all just to set you up."

Allan snorted. "Yeah well, Guy is…wait, how do you know all that?"

Will watched him quietly for a moment. "I heard everything you two said to each other. The door was left ajar on purpose."

"Oh…" Then as realisation sank in: "_Oh_."

He could feel himself turn as red as Will's last name. "Look Will, I-"

"You don't have to say anything. I heard it all, didn't I."

Allan couldn't look him in the eye. "I just…the thing is…"

"You saved my life," Will said quietly, his eyes fastened on Allan's face like burning embers. "And hers."

He snorted. "Yeah well, I was the one who put 'em in danger in the first place!"

"But not on purpose," Will argued. "Not _this _time."

Allan shuffled uncomfortably, only to feel a sudden pressure against his thigh. Reaching down under the blankets, he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the small glass bottle that held Umayma's deadly poison.

"Is that what I think it is?" Will asked, eyeing it distastefully.

"Yup. Payment for my night at the inn. I owe you, remember?"

Allan thrust the bottle into Will's hand, who opened his mouth to argue, only to fall silent at the sight of the bottle glinting in the mid-afternoon light. Allan watched in growing amusement as Will's long fingers explored the contours and craftsmanship of the tiny jewelled container.

"How do you suppose they make these bottles?" he asked. "Djaq once told me something about glass-blowing, but I could never really figure it out for myself."

"We'll just have to track one down," Allan said. "Ask 'im to show us how it's done."

"I suppose it might be a bit like carpentry," he said thoughtfully. "Only much more delicate…like learning to say the right thing at the right time."

He looked up at Allan again, meaningfully. "Don't try to change the subject this time. Why'd you do it?"

"Why do we do _anything_?" Allan sighed. "I guess I…it all comes down to _fighting _for somethin'. Even back in Sherwood, it was all just a matter of just _havin' _somethin' waitin' for 'em. Much had Robin and Bonchurch. Robin had Marian and Locksley. John 'ad 'is family. You 'ad…"

His eyes fell to the place where Djaq slumbered.

"I…didn't 'ave anythin' like that. Or rather, I _did_…only I didn't realise it till it was too late."

The men listed off into silence again, until Will asked: "Why do you think Guy did all that? What was _he _fighting for?"

Allan was still, musing it over. The answer was somewhere deep within him…he needed to find the right words for it.

"I think it was different for a man like Guy…he didn't fight to defend things. He fought to _get _them. And he knew what he was capable of when he couldn't get what he wanted. But this time…he wanted to see how far someone _else_ would go. I think…'e just wanted to find someone who was worse than him."

Will nodded thoughtfully. "And you were that somebody. Except…you _weren't_, in the end. You were going to get everything you wanted, and you said no. Why?"

"But that's the thing!" Allan blurted. "I _didn't_ want it! I mean, obviously I _did_," – he tried not to look at Djaq when he said this – "but…I couldn't just _take_ it."

The reality of what it was he had done came back to him, and a vague smile – as though he'd forgotten how to make one – lifted up his face. "I said _no_."

Somewhat baffled with himself, he turned to Will for clarification.

"Why did I say no?"

Will nodded in the direction of Djaq.

"Because she was right. After this long, you'd think I would have figured out that she usually is."

_I believe you're a good man, Allan-a-Dale._

He finally got it.

For a moment he simply let the euphoria of the realisation flood through him, bursting like rain after a long and bitter drought.

"Are you going to tell Djaq? About…Guy's offer?" he finally asked.

"I don't think she needs to know, do you?"

Allan shook his head.

"Allan?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

For a moment the two men looked at each other, the friendship that had once existed between them reasserting itself as surely as stone and mortar built up the walls of a house.

"There's more I want to say," Allan said. "But we have to wait until Djaq wakes up."

There was a long, low sigh from Djaq. She raised her head and stretched out, blinking her eyes sleepily as she looked at the two men.

"Did someone say my name?" she asked, after a yawn so large that it threatened to topple her from her chair.

Allan cleared his throat, nervous once again. "Yeah, I did."

He twisted his fingers into the sheets.

"There's some stuff I have to tell you. The thing is…well, it started on the day I went to the Trip to make some money. I was tired and hungry and Guy found me there. I tried talking my way out, but Guy wasn't fooled. I…um…there was…"

"Torture?" Djaq said for him, and he nodded.

"Then Guy came in and said some stuff."

He closed his eyes in frustration. He _had_ to say this, no matter how much it hurt.

"He told me that the only way out was to pass on some secrets. Just little things. Not the location of the camp. Not anything that could hurt anyone. That's what I believed anyway. 'I am not robbed. Robin is not killed. You'll be doing us both a service.' That's what he said, and I believed him. So many things were going on in my head. I was scared and tired and-"

He stopped, and forced himself to tell the complete truth. If he didn't confess all of his petty nature now, they wouldn't believe the most important truth when it came.

"I was jealous of Robin. Everyone loved 'im, everything was 'is for the taking. I just…I wanted something that was _mine_. So I agreed to it. I wanted the money. I thought I could handle it. So I told 'im some things…about the attempt on the strong-room…about the black diamonds. And then, I sold out Roger of Stoke. And 'e died for it. 'E died 'cause of me.

"But you 'ave to believe me – when I went to the Trip that day, I told Maggie to take the money back. I wanted it all finished. But Robin caught me, he didn't let me explain. It was like, somewhere in my head, I was sure I _couldn't _get caught, because I couldn't imagine the consequences. I _couldn't_ loose all of you, but I did."

He turned to Djaq, laying his hand on hers, begging her to believe him.

"I've should've done what you said. I was _going_ to do what you said. I just…got too scared. But I swear to you…both of you…it was done. I was finished with Guy.

"And then, when I got back, you guys were together, and you had this whole life with each other all planned out. And when you asked me to stay here with you…I wanted to more than anything, but…" he felt burning heat pool behind his eyes, felt his throat close painfully, and fought back against the flood that was about to burst through his self-control, "…I wanted to deserve you."

He exhaled, and fell back on his pillows, clenching his eyes shut. That was all. It was up to them now.

Finally, when neither of them said a word, he looked back up at them. Will had the grave and thoughtful look on his face that Allan remembered so well, the one that made him look both old and young at the same time. Djaq's eyes were shining, and her face looked radiant. For the first time in what felt like a long, long time, Allan's soul touched not just happiness, but peace.

He cleared his throat uncertainly.

"So…what happens now?"

"Now?" Djaq said. "Now we leave this place. It has been two years for us…long enough we think. Time to move on."

"As soon as you're strong enough," Will said, seeing the uncertain look on his friend's face.

"Well yeah, I figured that," Allan said, and grinned, not even bothering to hide his joy this time. "Where to?"

"England eventually. But there is no hurry. The world is a big place you know," Djaq said.

"But wait, what about the treaty an' all that? What about you two gettin' hitched?"

Will and Djaq exchanged another glance across the bed.

"The thing is…it's not really safe for us here anymore," Will said. "Many were opposed to the marriage anyway, and it certainly doesn't help that the man who caused all this mess was an Englishman. We've spoke to Malik and he's given us leave to go. It's best for all of us if we make a quiet escape."

Allan nodded, but could feel their remorse. "But you fought so hard for this…"

"We're alive and we're together," Will said firmly. "All of us. That's all that matters. It's time to let the world take care of itself now."

"When are we going?"

"Tonight," Djaq said, squeezing his hand. "There is nothing to keep us here anymore. We are going as soon as you get your strength back. You need to rest now. You still look exhausted."

He settled back happily into the pillows. "Sure, rest sounds good." But there was still one more thing he wanted to know: "Will you guys be here when I wake up?"

Djaq and Will exchanged smiles, and then Djaq leaned forward and kissed his forehead, sending warmth all the way through him.

"Of course we will," she said.

Before he closed his eyes, he noticed a brief and shadowy movement at the door, as though someone had quickly stepped away from sight. Perhaps Will and Djaq had not been the only ones watching over him.

* * *

When he awoke again, it seemed to be near sunset.

Will and Djaq were sound asleep, curled up together on a low divan against the wall, a breeze as soft as the Arabian lullaby stirring Djaq's hair. Allan stretched and eased himself out of bed, quietly so not as to wake them up. The last light of the fading sun lit the two lovers with an orange ambiance, and Allan simply watched for a while as he'd done for so many nights in Sherwood, wondering to himself where they'd come from and how it was he was lucky enough to call them his friends. They were really there, within arm's reach, and in the glow of the evening they looked transcendent.

Finally he stood, pulled on the shirt draped over the end of the bed and pushed his feet into his boots. There was someone he wanted to find, and hopefully she wasn't too far away.

* * *

She wasn't. He caught a glimpse of her skirt fluttering around a corner moments after he left the room.

"Hey, wait!" he cried, darting after her. He caught her in the next corridor. She turned around stiffly, her eyes glaring over her veil.

"You alright?" he asked.

"No." she answered shortly.

"Yeah, well…I guess that's fairly obvious."

He shuffled his feet, painfully self-conscious all of a sudden.

"I wanted to talk to you." What little he could see of her face revealed nothing, but as she didn't walk away, he continued. "We're leavin'. Me and Will and Djaq. Leavin' the Holy Land, prob'ly for England. Don't know for certain though."

"And?"

"Well, I was thinkin'…if you wanted…there's nothing to stop you comin' with us."

He waited, but there was nothing but haughty silence.

"Up to you of course, but I just thought what with everythin' that's happened…you might want to leave this place behind. Get a fresh start."

"I don't want your pity," she snapped, and he felt his temper flare.

"I'm not _giving_ you pity," he said witheringly. "Just a choice. Take it or leave it. But I expect we'll be leavin' soon. After the execution. Up to you, love."

He turned and left her there.

* * *

Back in his room Will and Djaq were stirring, and he managed to scramble back into bed before either one noticed he'd been gone.

"How are you feeling?" Djaq asked, stepping up close.

"Much better thanks. Are we off?"

Once Allan was standing, Will cleared his throat.

"Guy is scheduled to…er, go at sunset. Do you want to…"

"No!" Allan cried. "_No_. Although…maybe it would be alright if we just…I dunno…were _there_ when they take him out of the cell or something. It just feels wrong for him to be, you know…alone."

The two nodded in agreement.

"Come on then," Djaq said. "We don't have much time."

Allan watched impatiently as they hefted their travelling packs onto their bags, and the three of them hurried away out the door.

* * *

It didn't last long. They stood against the wall in the corridor that led to the execution courtyard. Allan's heart was not so much beating as it was spinning in his chest, and his palms were moist with sweat. Below them a door clanged open and they straightened. Footsteps grew louder, a head and shoulders appeared in the darkness of the stairwell and Guy emerged, escorted by two guards and followed by the hooded executioner.

It all seemed to happen so slowly, and yet only a few seconds. He walked upright, his eyes fixed straight ahead of him. He even swaggered a little, defiance gleaming in his eyes. Allan had been right. Guy wanted to take his own way out.

He did not look at them as he passed, but his arm stretched out as he went by, and though no words were exchanged, Allan put out his own hand. Without slowing or hesitating, Guy deposited Marian's ring in his outstretched palm.

Will, Djaq and Allan watched in silence as the doors opened at the end of the corridor, revealing the stone courtyard beyond, bathed in the red light of evening. The men marched through, and the doors closed forever on Guy of Gisbourne.

* * *

They had left the palace three days ago, with Khalid seeing them off at a small postern gate just as darkness fell. The palace itself was in an uproar, what with Ameer's murder and Guy's execution and Sir Percy's disappearance. The three of them had slipped out with hoods pulled up over their heads, stopping only for Khalid to slip them some money and supplies, including several pouches of spices that would surely last Djaq several years.

"Thank you," she'd whispered. "English food is _so_ tasteless."

"Good luck Safiyah," Khalid said, clasping her hand. "I received some news this morning. Rabeea is expecting."

Djaq put one hand to her heart.

"Khalid! That is wonderful!"

"We already know what we're going to call it. Djaq for a boy, Safiyah for a girl. Are you sure you don't want to stay for the birth? Rabeea would be glad for your expertise."

Djaq shook her head.

"Thank you, but to be honest…it is a relief to be free of this place. It was never home for Will and I. But the child – girl or boy – if I am to be its namesake, then I insist that they grow up to be a physician."

Khalid smiled. "Agreed."

Then, casting one last nod at Will and Allan, watching from a few steps away, he retreated back into the palace. Will was sure he'd heard him mutter: "Englishmen…I just can't understand it…"

They had fetched Allan's belongings from the inn, and he had fancied that Will and Djaq were walking with an added spring in their step, surely something to do with their newfound freedom. Djaq in particular looked surprisingly carefree – though it was no wonder, what with the fact that she had permanently abandoned her veil. Her hair had been cut short again; a hurried job made just before leaving. It would always be safer to travel as a boy, and she kept running her hands through it until Will grabbed her hand and held it tight. They couldn't seem to stop smiling at each other.

As such, Allan was the only one who had noticed that a shadowy figure, concealed in layers of filmy cloth, but still bearing unmistakable feminine curves, was trailing them. He'd smiled to himself.

* * *

They were staying at Bassam's house, but would leave for Acre in the morning. Bassam had sent a pigeon-messenger ahead to book passage for four travellers. Though none of them approached her, they were in quiet agreement that Umayma would continue to trail them to the coast. She was like a dark spirit in a way; they had no idea where she slept or ate, but she was always there, just at the periphery of their vision. They had decided that they'd let her make the first move when it came to speaking with them, and had made provisions for her when that happened.

But for now, the three of them stood before a simple grave by the desert-side, staring down at the epitaph.

"Marian. Beloved."

The red flowers were broken and faded now. Djaq had denied knowledge of them, and so Allan could only assume that it had been Guy who had bought them. He knelt down and dug a hole with his hands, deeper this time, and gently placed the ring inside, patting the sand down carefully.

He brushed his hands down, hearing Djaq give a little sigh. Will was standing with his arm around her.

"I wish I'd known her better," Djaq said quietly.

Allan stepped back, and felt Djaq's small hand slip into his own.

"It wasn't fair," Will said. Allan was silent, deep in thought, as he so often found himself these days.

Hatred and jealousy had taken Marian from the world. She'd been too caught up in lies and intrigues and games of the human heart. It had cost her everything, and so very nearly had Will and Djaq fallen to the same dark intentions. Allan glanced over at Will, and Will nodded at him imperceptibly. They were thinking the same thing; that Djaq would never be lost as Marian had been. The agreement passed into Allan, and then back again into Will over the head of the woman between them, so that Djaq was aware of nothing but a tightening of the arm around her shoulders and a squeezing of the hand in her own.

They stood in silence for a long time, reluctant to leave the resting place of the English Rose for the final time, and as the sun slowly set, their shadows stretched out far before them. Allan was acutely aware of Djaq's presence next to him. He had believed for so long now, that if he were close to Djaq, if he could somehow have all of her, then he'd understand what she meant when she called him a good man.

But the answer hadn't been with her. She'd simply seen something in him, believed it was true, and told him so. And though it was too late for him to give her that piece of himself and tell her it was hers forever, it didn't mean it wasn't still there. It didn't mean he couldn't find what she'd seen and wield it for himself. With that knowledge, a strange new strength was unfurling within him.

And a new day would dawn tomorrow. _Incipit vita nova._

Together they turned and walked from the graveyard. The first stars of the evening were already out, and the thought of a soft bed waiting for him at Bassam's house reminded him of something.

"So, do I get to hear the story of Will and the pillow-talker?"

Will groaned as Djaq sent a peal of laughter out into the night sky, and Allan felt his spirit lift. He'd missed that sound so much, and now he'd never have to go another day without hearing it. He'd make sure of that.

"It's a very amusing story, my love," Djaq said, wrapping her arms around Will's waist.

"Oh, all right then," he muttered, but as Djaq launched into the tale, Allan's thoughts had already flitted ahead to the ship waiting for them at Acre. He had just realised that he had no idea where it was headed. England? France? Somewhere else entirely?

But he smiled as Djaq's voice and Will's silence enveloped him in the darkness, drawing them closer together as if the three of them were bound with the finest of silver threads.

It didn't matter where he was going. He was already home.

* * *

_...if this should be, i say if this should be-_

_you of my heart, send me a little word;_

_that i may go unto him, and take his hands,_

_saying, Accept all happiness from me._

_Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird_

_sing terribly afar in the lost lands._

**_e. e. cummings_**


	18. Epilogue

_Well guys, this is it. The very last piece of "Traveler from the West." _

_I hope you've enjoyed this story, and maybe I'll see you on my LJ page, where I've just kicked off a rewrite of the end of S2 and S3 (due to its format, I can't post it here on FF. However, I should be easy enough to find – I'm ravenya03 on LiveJournal as well). Hopefully I'll see you there._

_Until then, here's the final part of "Traveler." *Sniff*There's not a lot to say; I'd rather just let this piece speak for itself…_

* * *

**Epilogue **

Moonlight bathed the ship in its gentle light, glinting on the crests and dips of the ocean around her. Far in the distance she could see the smear of darkness that was her country, and she knew that she was leaving it for the last time.

As it had turned out, Umayma had joined them, slipping onto the ship like ghost, refusing her cabin and settling down on the deck, glaring at anyone who looked at her curiously. Djaq had spoken with her briefly on bringing her some food, but the woman was too proud and too stubborn to relinquish much personal information. She reminded Djaq of herself when she first arrived in Sherwood Forest, and hid a smile. They'd survived that, and they'd survive this.

She heard footsteps behind her and leaned back as she felt a pair of arms slip around her: one across her collarbone and one around her waist so that she stood wrapped in him, warm and safe.

"Are you alright?" Will asked.

"Mm," she said. "It all just happened so quickly. The peace treaty, the engagement, Allan coming back, all this with Gisbourne…"

He kissed her behind the ear. "We were so close…so close to seeing things through. And then other people had to go and ruin it – for money and power. I won't ever understand it."

She nestled her head under his chin.

"I am glad for that," she told him.

For a moment they were quiet, watching the land drift away into darkness.

"Do you think we should have stayed?" Will asked her. "Seen things through?"

Djaq sighed and shook her head. "We did everything humanly possible. Everything that God and Allah could have asked of us to secure peace. But there was always going to be something else…always one more obstacle in the way that needed to be overcome. Always, for the rest of our lives. We need to think of ourselves now."

"I know," Will said, tightening his arms around her. "It's just that…it might have been our last chance – our _only_ chance to be married. Lawfully, I mean."

She turned her head to look at him. "We do not need the world's permission."

He gave her a small, sweet smile and kissed the tip of her nose. "I made you something."

Keeping one hand around her waist, he dipped his other into his pocket and pulled out a tiny wooden ring. Its polished surface gleamed in the pale moonlight, and Djaq could see the skill that must have gone into shaping such a thing. She held out her hand and he gently slipped it over her ring finger.

"There," he told her. "I'm your husband."

For a few moments Djaq couldn't speak. The she freed her hand from his and fumbled with the shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders, yanking off one of the slender tassels that lined the edge. With her nimble fingers, she tied it around his ring finger. "I'm your wife," she told him. He looked at her silently, and then tightened his arms around her again, burying his face in her neck.

They stayed like that for a long time, the sea and stars the only witnesses to their marriage ceremony. They did not smile or laugh, or even speak: there was a type of joy that went deeper than such things. Her homeland faded over the horizon, and all Djaq could see was the ocean.

"Are you coming down below?" Will asked. "I know…a ship's hold isn't the most romantic of all places to spend a wedding night...."

They chuckled softly to each other between soft kisses, till she rested her forehead on his, her eyes closed.

"Soon," she said. "I just…could I have a bit longer?"

She gestured to the horizon, and Will understood. A piece of her heart was still in the Holy Land; with Bassam, with Khalid, with all she'd grown up with, and she just needed a few minutes more for it to catch up with her again. He held her for another moment, then kissed her mouth gently before heading for their bunk below.

Djaq listed back into thought, melancholy and bliss rising and falling within her like the swaying of the sea. It was the war, she realised, that which the Englishmen called their Holy Pilgrimage that was the start of it all. It had cost her everything; her home, her family, her life as Safiyah. It had caused so much bloodshed, both here and in England. It was because of the war that Robin had rallied the outlaws to his cause, fighting for both her people and his. And without it, she would never have met him. Or Will Scarlett. Or Allan-a-Dale.

She sighed, and set herself upright. She would never like ships, and she was reluctant to go below despite the waiting comfort of Will's arms. She let the thought wash over her, feeling the new pressure of his ring about her finger, and smiled to herself. Strange as it was, perhaps all the grief the war had caused her was worth it for finding him. She headed for the hatch, but as she glanced up for one final look at the moon and sea, she caught sight of a figure at the rails. It was Allan.

He was standing very still, looking down at something in his hand, stroking it with his fingers. It looked like a pale strand of material. As she watched, he extended his hand out over the side of the ship. He did not fling the cloth away, but simply opened his hand and let the wind take it.

For a moment she was transfixed, trying to figure out what the sight reminded her of, until she realised: she had performed a similar ritual herself, many years ago now, when she had cut off her hair and sent it out into the desert. Just like Safiyah, he looked as though he was letting go of something deep within himself that had taken the shape and form of a scrap of cloth.

Then he turned and noticed her standing there.

"Oh hey Djaq," he said.

"Are you alright?" she asked, and for a few moments he simply looked into her face as though searching for something. Then his face cleared and he gave her a smile.

"Never better. Fresh air, salty water, warm night. I was going to stay up here tonight instead of in the cabin. In case you and Will wanted to…um…sleep. Long day and all."

She smiled back. "Alright. Maybe you could speak to Umayma while you are up here. Convince her that trying to bite everyone's head off is not the best way to make friends."

He cocked an eyebrow. "That means a lot coming from you. Little Miss Don't Help Me, 'cause I'm Perfectly Capable of Doing it Myself."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Mature too," he said with a sigh.

"It was just a thought."

"Yeah, alright. I'll do it. But only for your sake. Just between you and me, I don't think she likes me that much."

"A _woman_?" she cried in mock astonishment. "Not liking _you_? Does such a creature exist?"

He gave her a cheerful smile and her heart warmed to see it, for she was looking at the old Allan, the Allan she'd known long ago. He leaned forward and chucked her gently under the chin.

"Night Djaq."

"Goodnight, Allan."

She watched him go, the smile fading from her face as her thoughts took her back to the watery darkness of the cavern beneath the palace. She quietly pondered the question he'd asked her, the one she'd heard through the fever and delirium in a moment of strange lucidity.

As the ship sailed deeper into the night, she pondered how many years he'd carried that question for her – and how many more it would take her to answer it for him.

_Yes, I would have._

* * *


End file.
